


Subtweeter

by hhoneycas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (love that tag lmao), Arguing, Bickering, Courtroom Drama, Detective Dean Winchester, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Lawyer Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2019-11-07 10:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhoneycas/pseuds/hhoneycas
Summary: If there's one thing Dean Winchester hates, it's Castiel Novak. If there's one thing he loves, it's tormenting Castiel Novak. What can he say? The teasing just makes the god-awful time he has to spend with the man more bearable.Of course, some time turns to a lot of time and soon enough they're running into each other at every corner. Castiel seems equally as displeased as Dean and equally as intent on making him miserable.Either they sit down, talk, and figure something out, or they spend all of their time trying to out-snark one another until someone's out of breath. So far, it's not looking like either one is interested in talking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Hey! It's a longfic brought to you by me! I've been sitting on this for a bit and figured, "hey, get off your ass and post it!" 
> 
> I figured I'd post this, see how it goes over and then decide on the final details of it! So, let me know what you think and I might keep it up! :)

Dean looked up from his phone and down the courthouse hall to the lawyer storming towards him, anger scrawled in every nook and cranny of his expression.

“Detective.” The lawyer stopped dead in front of him, glaring the same glare.

“Lawyer.” Dean cocked an eyebrow at the man above him.

“I was using your professional title, it doesn’t work when you simply call me by my job title,” the other man said, squinting and painfully serious.

Dean had to hold back a gag. Ugh. Attorneys. Especially this one. _Castiel Novak._ A name fit for the pretentious asshole out to ruin any and every good case Dean had. Because somehow, he was there, one table over, every damn time Dean was in court. Same damn briefcase, same damn coat, same damn necktie. And every time, his position was the same, “My client did not commit the murder blah-blah blah blah.”

Dean laughed lightly, refocusing his attention to the device in front of him and halfheartedly continued to the conversation, “So, what does the big bad litigator really want with me?” He looked up pointedly. “Other than correcting my grammar?”

“I was coming to tell you that what you are doing there,” Castiel gestured towards Dean’s phone, “Must be breaking some sort of rule.”

“No, buddy,” Dean stood, “the rules clearly say that I can use my phone, just not while i’m in there.” Dean pointed a finger at the courtroom doors.

“I meant the tweeting.”

“Oh, yeah probably,” Dean shrugged, pocketing his phone and walking to the water fountain. “But what do you care?” Dean called over his shoulder to the angry lawyer.

“Journalists are permitted to share information via twitter for news purposes, and I doubt your _commentary_ would fall into that category, but,” Castiel took a long pause, glaring at Dean, “ _go off I guess._ ”

Dean smirked at Castiel, slowly straightening to his full height, which had a good two inches on the attorney.

“Honestly, Novak, I’m surprised you used that phrase even close to correct, despite it being a long-dead one,” Dean said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “but frankly, I’m _more_ surprised you even have a twitter.”

“I don’t. A friend notified me. Apparently, it’s somewhat viral.” Castiel crossed his arms and continued to glare at Dean as a look of pride creeped across the detective’s face.

“Viral huh? Kinda cool if you think about it,” Dean said, raising his eyebrows in excitement.

“It was rude. You were being surreptitious, though you were obviously talking about me, which you have n-” There was a finger on his mouth. Dean’s finger.

“It’s called subtweeting. See you in court.” And Dean and his finger were gone.

Castiel had no choice but to walk back into the courtroom. The Chicago courthouse wasn’t an enormous place by any means, but it held all twelve jurors and both councils, so it worked. There were about four rows in the gallery, and Cas had only walked past two before he heard his name.

“Novak,” Dean whispered loudly, holding up his phone for Cas to see his twitter feed. “I’m all set!” he said before grinning widely. Damn detectives. Especially _Dean Winchester_. Every plain-clothes jackass who’d done it long enough had an ego to him, but none like Dean. And somehow Castiel always got to defend whatever murderer Dean had arrested. So, every time, Castiel got to experience the same ego, the same attitude, and the same stubbornness that could only reinforce the idea that lawyers and detectives had a vendetta against one another.

Castiel shook his head in an effort to refocus, and walked up to the bar, pushing through the door, and taking a seat next to his client, Adam Milligan. The murderer. The _triple homicide murderer._ The murderer Castiel _knew_ was guilty, but _somehow_ he had enough evidence to make this case last longer than he wanted.

“Please rise for the Honorable Judge Scoott- Sorry, Scott.”

As Castiel stood he heard a soft, repressed giggle behind him. He turned and his anger, which was now an accessible preset when he dealt with the detective, showed on his face. Of course Dean was giggling. That was another thing about detectives, a complete lack of regard for social norms or any knowledge of what was appropriate. Castiel glowered and squinted further, mouthing a warning. Dean gave a confused shake of his head and out of habit signed, _What the fuck?_

Castiel in his anger, confusion, and need to be discreet, poorly signed, _How do you know sign?_

Pride washed over Dean’s face before he moved his hands again. _My brother’s wife_.

 _Ah._ Both sat down as the rest of the court did and tried to pay attention. Thirty seconds later, Castiel heard faint giggling. This time he turned around in his chair and immediately signed and the unruly detective. _Stop laughing._

 _Why?_ Dean began to laugh again.

Cas was halfway through signing, “ _Because I said so,_ ” when he heard a throat being cleared behind him.

“Counselor. Is there something more interesting behind the bar than the murder trial?”

“No, Your Honor,” Castiel said, slowly righting himself and quickly reddening. “My apologies.”

“Then are _both sides_ ready?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Castiel picked up his pen and began scratching it across the heel of his hand.

“Will the clerk please swear in the jury?”

Castiel moved the pen onto the legal pad and bagan scratching through piece after piece of yellow paper in nervousness.

A chorus of “I do”s pulled Castiel back into the courtroom as the Prosecuting Attorney, Ellen Harvelle, stood, made her opening statement, and returned to her seat, leaving Castiel to make his.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, standing and firing off the classic statement. “My client, under both United States and Illinois law, is innocent until proven guilty. Today you will find that all evidence presented to you by the prosecution is simply circumstantial. Mr. Milligan did not kill his extended family, but mistakenly interacted with the crime scene in a way that falsely shows him at fault, when in reality, he is a victim of chance. My client is not guilty. Thank you.” Castiel took his seat, his inner monologue firing the whole time, because _of course_ the guy says he didn’t do it, and _of course_ Castiel is the lawyer that got the case where there’s just enough evidence leaning in the murderer’s favor that he’s going to be here for weeks.

“Would the prosecution call their first witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The prosecution would like to call Detective Dean Winchester,” Harvelle said, nodding towards Dean.

“Ooh,” Dean said shimmying in mock excitement as he walked up to the stand. Once seated, he winked at Castiel and did something with his hands that could have been a salute or the sign for loser. Either way, Castiel was angered more and cemented a glare on his face while Dean was sworn in.

“Detective,” Harvelle said, standing and pacing about the well. “You were present at the scene of the crime, yes?”

“Yes ma’am.” Lack of manners toward Castiel aside, it was clear Dean respected Ellen. He rarely fiddled with his tie clip or the cuffs of his shirt as he did with other lawyers. For instance, Castiel.

“Were you present during the actual event of the crime?”

“No ma’am, but I got there right after.”

“And what did you find when you arrived?”

“A man standing in a pool of blood surrounded by three bodies.”

“And you can identify the man in the room as this man here?” She gestured to Milligan.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Was there anyone else in the room?”

Dean shook his head. “Just me and the two responding officers.”

“Was he holding a weapon?”

“Yes, a steak knife.” Dean held up his hands to show the length of the blade. His eyes flicked down to his hands then up to Castiel. Then, he winked.

Cas rolled his eyes and simply signed, _Please_ , before tilting his head back down at his legal pad, keeping one eye on Dean. He watched as the other man’s brow furrowed and his eyes widened. He watched him quickly glance around the courtroom before settling his eyes on Ellen, clearing his throat and answering her question.

Castiel’s satisfaction washed over him, and he didn’t realize how distracted he was until he heard his cue for cross-examination. He stood, looking up from the doodles on his legal pad that he’d been told unsettled his clients.

“Detective, why were you at the crime scene, just after time of death?”

“Someone called it in, said they heard screaming,” Dean said, inspecting the end of his tie, and starting the tirade of coarseness that came with every trial. Every time Dean had decided to be a smartass and Castiel hated it so much he responded of course, by being passive aggressive. Today was no exception.

“Are detectives usually the first responders to 911 calls?” Castiel asked. An artificial innocence lilted through his voice as he walked toward the stand.

“No.” Dean scoffed a little.

“Why were you at the scene of the crime so soon after?”

“With murders,” Dean leaned forward on the stand, condescension slipping into his voice and a light glare resting on his face, “detectives are sent immediately, and I was in the area.”

“And, just to clarify, you have that jurisdiction? To decide that? When and where you go? Or is it up to a _superior_ officer?” Castiel raised an eyebrow, it was a valid question, only it was serrated with Castiel’s superiority. After questioning Dean for years, he knew the challenge on his rank would _infuriate_ him. Why did Castiel want to infuriate Dean? Because he was being a smartass.

“Yes,” Dean said. He had begun breathing long and slow as he looked at Castiel, eyes filled with a hard anger. Castiel _had_ been questioning Dean for years. Pissing him off for years. But Dean was a detective, and he knew what the lawyer was trying to do. Castiel wanted anger, and sure, Dean _really_ wanted to get angry, but he also wanted to tear the smug smirk off his face, calm and collected as it was.

“My rank,” he paused unclipping his badge, his real, silver plated copper star, “as detective,” another pause, bouncing the leather clad weight in his hand before showing it to Castiel, “gives me jurisdiction over anything assigned to me, and this case, was assigned to me.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched down at the corners before he continued as if nothing happened, “How were you assigned this case if no superior officer was with you to assign it?” Castiel asked as anger crawled into his voice.

“I called my captain on the way. I asked, she gave it to me.” Confidence punctuated the way he leaned back, the way he licked his lips, and the way he quirked his eyebrows. Dean knew he was at least close to winning.

“I doubt that’s how it works, but I’m moving on.” Castiel cleared his throat violently, inner monologue firing as he paced the floor. _Clean slate, new topic._ Naturally, with the subtext of every question being, _I’m trying to piss you off_ , the topic was never really different, and Castiel kept his air of sass. “In the other homicide cases you’ve worked in your career, as far as you can remember, has the murderer _remained_ at the crime scene?”

“Nope.”

“That’s wonderful,” Castiel said, unaware of what’d he’d said, and how it could bite him in the ass.

Dean, ever the instigator, was the one to do the biting. “Gotta say, Novak,” he said, hissing through his teeth, “don’t think eescaped murderers are wonderful. In all the homicide cases I’ve worked in my career,” he paused for effect, “ _as far as I can remember_ , the absence of a suspect only prolongs the horrible, sad, and quite gruesome affair. I think that the family of the victims would find it a great deal rude for you to have said such a thing.” He paused, “Don’t you agree?”

As Dean sat calm and falsely affronted, Castiel fumed. Now it was his turn to take a deep breath and respond with a smile while his nails left dull marks on the heels of his hands. “My client is the only remaining family of the victims and contrary to what the prosecution may state, my client did not commit murder with intent!” Castiel’s voice quickly increased in volume, peaking when he crashed his hands on the bench with immense force. The gratifying part of the action was Dean flinching away. The not so gratifying part was the moment after.

Castiel froze and went silent. He was met with twelve stunned faces looking around the courtroom to determine whether they or the judge were more shocked by his tantrum. The judge was. He was also far angrier, giving Castiel a look that had him slinking back from the stand like a wounded dog.

Dean, his fear having melted into shock, sat with his mouth open and pure victory in his eyes. Court was normally beyond boring, but today, oh today had been fun, and now he got to watch Castiel get torn into.

“My apologies, your Honor.” Castiel looked down at his feet, hands tucked behind his back.

“Mr. Novak, do you have any further questions for the witness?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, do you think you can continue your cross examination without anymore excessive yelling?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do so.”

Castiel turned back to Dean who was no longer shocked by the yelling, but by the switch in Castiel’s, posture, voice, and everything about him.

“What was the motive you claimed for my client?”

“Insurmountable debt.”

“Why was this be deemed the motive?”

“Milligan is the only remaining member of his family, meaning he would inherit his grandmother’s small fortune now that his eldest sister is out of the picture.” Dean’s voice nearly echoed in the stunned silent room.

“Thank you detective.” Castiel turned to the judge. “No further questions.”

“Then you may take your seat, counselor.”

As Castiel sat down, Milligan started talking in a angered whisper, “You just changed what I was going for, dumbass.”

Castiel tried to stay calm, keeping his face forward. “The sentence for involuntary manslaughter is 13 years less that of voluntary manslaughter.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t kill them.”

Castiel took a deep breath hissing through his teeth, “Yes, you did. And you will go to prison for it, but I am _trying_ to make sure you aren’t there until you’re ninety.” He turned sharply, glaring at criminal next to him.

For the next hour, court was back to being boring. Ellen called the forensic specialist, and proved that Milligan’s prints were on the knife. Then, she called the security guard who said Milligan walked into the building fifteen minutes before the time of death. Castiel was beginning to think he had literally no chance of coming out of this with any victory. After he’d finished his cross-examination of Milligan’s girlfriend, who lied through her teeth the whole time, they took a much needed fifteen minute recess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These guys? Professional? Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 2! The response to chapter one was more than I expected and so I thank you all for that <3 I hope you enjoy the rest of it (it's dialogue heavy)!

Castiel pushed past the heavy doors, moving at a near run to the restroom. He splashed some water on his face in an effort to wash the tired out of his eyes. Unfortunately, his efforts were halted when Detective Winchester banged past the heavy swinging door and took a place beside him.

“There are other sinks, Detective. You don’t need to be right next to me.”

Dean moved his fingers to his hair, fixing it as he locked eyes with Castiel in the mirror. “Well, let’s see if I give a fuck, and then when the answer’s ‘no’ we can all go on our merry way.”

“Oh, my apologies, I didn’t notice that _doing my job_ had pissed you off.” Castiel glared at the other man, suddenly deciding to forgo a towel and flick the water on his hands at Dean. The detective took a deep breath, looking at his reflection, then down at his hands, and the water pooling there.

“That wasn’t very nice, Novak.”

Castiel was in the middle of a satisfactory shrug when the water hit him. Suddenly, there was water all down his front and on his face, and all he could do was stand and stare, gaping like a fish. Finally he got his act together enough to yell at the similarly stunned detective, “You threw _water_ on me!”

Then, as if Castiel wasn’t embarrassed enough, Dean started laughing and nodding furiously.

“I can’t go back into court like this, Dean! I look like I pissed myself!” The shock had worn off now and Castiel was angry. Very angry.

“Yeah, you do! Sorry,” Dean relented, giving a shrug of his own.

“Give me your pants.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean asked, freezing.

“You did this,” Castiel gestured to his darkened dress pants, “you fix it. Give me your pants.” He held out an expectant hand.

“I-uh, okay?” Dean walked over to the door, locking it. Then, in the middle of the room, he started stripping.

  
“There are stalls for a reason, Detective!” Cas yelled, turning away.

  
“Oh,” Dean ducked his head. “Yeah.” He hopped over to the handicapped stall, pants still half off. A tedious minute passed before the black slacks were flung over the door. “Now give me yours!” A hand popped over the door and disappeared again as Dean jumped up and down.

“Why should I?” Castiel asked, arms folding around Dean’s pants.

He stopped jumping. “Despite how childish you think I am, I’m not walking into a courtroom in my underwear,” Dean said, the hand reappearing.

“Fine,” Castiel conceded, shedding his pants and handing them to the detective.

“J. Crew, Castiel? And _I’m_ supposed to be the plain-clothed one here. Disappointing.” He could practically hear Dean clicking his tongue in disdain.

“Well, you wouldn’t be wearing them if you hadn’t, oh I don’t know, _poured water on me_ ,” Castiel fumed, angrily pulling on the pants. In his haste he wasn't being careful and to the shock of everyone in the room, a long tearing sound bounced around the tiled walls. Castiel froze, he didn’t dare look to see what he’d done, but he didn’t have to and neither did the detective.

“Castiel,” Dean said wearily, “what was that?”

“Nothing.” Castiel quickly pulled off the pants, hiding them behind his back like a child.

The stall lock slowly slid out of place, and Dean walked out, failing to hide his anger with slow breaths. “Did you,” he took a breath, “tear my pants?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” He brought the slacks out from behind him, his hand slipping through the large hole on the inner thigh.

Dean took a shaky breath, nearly losing his grip on the waistband of the pants he had on. “So much mo-, you will pay...those cost me...Cas- I-, so much money you will pay me.” His free hand flailed before him, reaching out for the torn fabric.

“Surely, Dean, but in the meanwhile, may I have my pants back?”

Suddenly the stuttering detective was gone, replaced with a genuinely pissed one. “Have your pants back?! Oh, hell no! This,” Dean snatched the pants from Castiel, “is your fault. So if anyone is going into that room in their underwear, it’s you!”

“I have to stand up in front of a judge, Dean! You can hide a tear, I can’t hide bees!”  
Dean held the pants up to his face. “I can’t hide a tear the size of my fucking he- Wait, bees?” He looked down and let out a loud bark of a laugh, “You have bees on your underwear! Why?” he asked, still laughing.

“Unfortunately, I failed to complete my laundry this week.”

“We’re in court, dude. You didn’t set aside some simpler boxers?”

“I didn’t expect you to douse me with water!”

“Fair enough,” Dean said through laughs. “You’re also right that you can’t wear those in court, no one will take you seriously. Wait here.” And then Dean ran out of the bathroom, leaving Castiel alone and in his underwear.

Three minutes passed before the detective burst through the door, out of breath and with a gym bag in his hands.

“Why do you have your gym bag?”

“In case I ever want to go to the gym,” he said plainly, dropping the bag on the floor, kneeling next to it.

“Yes, I assumed, but what in there will help me?” he asked, patience wearing ever thinner.

“These.” Dean pulled out a black pair of pants out of the bag.  
It took him a minute to process what they were, but once he realized, “No,” was all he had to say.

“Why? They’re stretchy to fit your, uhh, thunder thighs,” Dean said, gesturing at Castiel.

The way he crossed his arms would have been serious had he not been standing in his underwear and a dress shirt. Instead, he came across petulant. “Because I’m not wearing leggings into court!”

“They’re yoga pants!”

“Okay, fine!” Castiel conceded, bringing a hand to his temples. “I’m not wearing _yoga pants_ into court. Also, why on Earth do you work out in yoga pants?”

“Reasons, Castiel!” Dean crossed his arms over his own chest and stood, causing his, or rather Castiel’s, pants to fall to the floor. Before Dean could react, Castiel took his turn to laugh. Dean looked down at himself for a brief second before yanking the pants back up.

“Dean, _your_ underwear have little music notes on them,” Castiel said, suppressing his smile.

“Fine! We’re both a couple of eight year-olds! But _I’m_ not wearing the yoga pants, because _I’m_ not the one who literally tore a hole in the only solid plan!” he said, fumbling around the pile of discarded clothes for a belt.

“Fine! If you insist, Detective, I will wear your yoga pants into court, just go grab my coat.” Dean ran out the door and returned holding Castiel’s long trench coat.

“One pedophile coat, counselor?” Dean asked, handing Castiel the jacket.

“It’s not a pedophile coat, it’s warm.” He snatched the jacket from Dean.

“Right,” he said. “Warm, so that when your in the park, naked and flashing kids, your junk doe-“

“It’s not a pedophile jacket!”

“Okay,” Dean said, raising surrendering hands. The pants stayed up successfully this time.

Castiel picked up the leggings, glancing from them to his underwear. “Glad I wore boxer briefs,” he mumbled, inspecting the thin fabric.

“And if I were a girl, _I_ would be glad you’re wearing boxer briefs, now put on the yoga pants,” Dean said, offhandedly.

“What does that mean?” Castiel asked, struggling to get the leggings past his, as Dean had so eloquently stated, thunder thighs.

“It means you’re hung, Castiel,” Dean spit out quickly, obviously embarrassed.

“Oh, well in that case, why would you have to be a woman? You’re bisexual, detective.”

Dean choked on nothing, stunned by Castiel’s bluntness. “How do you know?” It wasn’t something he was _quiet_ about, but he sure as hell didn’t remember telling Castiel.

“Your socks, for one.” Castiel took no time in tugging up the fabric around the other man’s legs revealing bright purple, blue, and pink socks.

“Okay, so it was a laundry day for everyone!” he yelled to the room. Then, turning to his feet, he muttered, “Can’t believe I was outed by my socks.”

“We’re Facebook friends, Detective. I’ve known for quite some time,” Castiel stated, inspecting his new pants.

Dean tossed up his hands. “Oh, brilliant. Do the pants fit? Can we go?” he asked, more than done with the whole ordeal.

“Yes, they fit just fine. Thank you, Dean.”

“Sure thing.” With that, Dean walked out of the bathroom, door slamming behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also pretend that I can write over on [Tumblr](www.hhoneycas.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions will rise in thi-- Seriously, it's just Dean fucking with Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say thank you to everyone who's given me just a little bit of support on this, it means the world!

Castiel didn’t really get nervous about things, but normally the things he did didn’t involve walking into his professional setting in yoga pants. And, to make things worse, Dean had been right. In an effort to conceal the offending spandex, he’d wrapped his trench coat around his torso as tightly as possible, and he looked a bit like a stereotypical pedophile.

Taking his seat next to Milligan, Castiel picked up his pen again, scrawling blue circles across the yellow paper.

“I swear, if you tear another hole in that legal pad, I will kill you,” the criminal’s voice whispered next to his ear. Slowly, he set the pen down and cleared his throat, staring ahead as he spoke.

“That is a threat, and you are in a room with detectives, police officers, and more cameras than you can imagine. I could tack another five years onto the shortened sentence you already don’t deserve, so I suggest,” he took a breath and turned slowly, “ _You_ let _me_ do whatever the hell I want to, or I will make sure you spend the rest of your life staring at the same flickering fluorescent light bulb with the knowledge that I’m the one who put you there. You don’t scare me, because _your_ life is in _my_ hands.”

Turning back to his pad, he started scribbling aimlessly as the court was called back into session.

He tried to pay attention to the events around him, he really did, but halfway through his third perfectly symmetrical octagon, his phone buzzed on the table next to him

 

_Facebook Messenger:_

_Det. Dean Winchester:_

_That was hot. Like, I hate you, but that was hot._

 

Furrowing his brow and ignoring the smug smirk from the felon to his left, Castiel pulled his phone under the table like a fucking high schooler.

 

_Castiel Novak Esq.:_

_What?_

 

_Det. Dean Winchester:_

_The way you talked to Mr. Murder? Hot._

 

_Castiel Novak Esq.:_

_We are in court, Dean. Please stop making fun of me._

 

_Det. Dean Winchester:_

_Fine. I’m dead serious, but fine._

 

No less confused, Castiel returned his phone to its place beside the legal pad. He threw a glance at the detective behind him, who shrugged throwing up the sign for “facts” and left Castiel more confused than he thought he could be.

“No further questions,” Ellen said, taking her seat.

Pulling himself back into courtroom, Castiel stood and took in the beat cop in front of him: Officer Lafitte, an average height, burly man with a Louisiana accent and a brotherly affection for Dean Winchester. He didn’t love the guy, but, in his experience, beat cops were easier to deal with than any detective. And today especially, he was tired of dealing with detectives.

“Officer, you said you were first on the scene after Detective Winchester, is that correct?”

“Yessir.”

“And, you stayed after Milligan had been arrested to survey the scene?” Castiel asked, beginning to rise from his chair, freezing when his phone lit up beside him.

 

_Facebook Messenger:_

_Det. Dean Winchester:_

_Nice pants :)_

 

Quickly as he could, he dropped back into his seat. A smothered laugh rose from the crowd behind him, no doubt from Dean.

“Could you repeat your answer, Officer?”

Slowly, the uniformed man nodded. “Sure, I said, yes, and that I was there for about another hour.”

“Okay,” Castiel looked down at the yellow papers on the desk, catching the judge’s intense confusion from the corner of his eye. “Was there anything unusual about the scene?”

“Nothin’ too out of the ordinary. The phone on the counter had new messages on it, and all the bodies were by the door, which was odd for a stabbing.”

“Why?” It was interesting hearing about the patterns. First and foremost, as Dean had been so keen on reminding him, murder was sad and tragic, but analytically, Castiel found it fascinating.

“Well, usually, it takes a bit to stab someone, less than with a bullet, so people have more time to run. Normally, the bodies get spread a bit.” Benny gestured while he spoke, miming most of the actions he mentioned.

“And the text messages?” Castiel prompted, leaning forward and ignoring every law school instinct that screamed at him to stand.

“Didn’t see ‘em.” Benny shrugged. “Phone got bagged, and I think it’s in the evidence lockup. Winchester would know, he processed all the evidence.”

Castiel turned around to look at the man. Dean’s head snapped up like a dog’s at his name, and locked eyes with Castiel.

“Detective, is the cellphone in the evidence lockup at the 12th precinct?”

Dean’s face contorted, eyes flicking up and to the right, an action Castiel instantly placed as a recollection technique. “There’s a couple from the Milligan case, yeah.” Then his eyes lit up. “Yeah! One of ‘em kept buzzing for like four days straight and we all almo-”

“Detective? It’s not pertinent.”

“Right, sorry.”

Castiel turned to the judge. “I would like to request a forty-five minute recess to go to the 12th district and collect the cellphones there.”

“Alright, Mr. Novak, we will extend the lunch break to one hour and forty-five minutes. Do you have any further questions for Officer Lafitte?”

Castiel shook his head, a weird kind of excitement bubbling under his skin.

The jury began filing out, the bailiffs came to escort Milligan away, and the rest of the room emptied fairly quickly until it was just Castiel.

Still a little nervous about being seen in yoga pants, he glanced around the room, groaning when he found his remaining company. Detective Winchester.

“I’m going with you,” he said plainly, leaning on the bar.

“No, you aren’t,” Castiel seethed. He stood, letting his coat fall open, and stalked toward the other man.

“You know,” Dean sighed, pointing at Castiel, “you usually tuck in a shirt that falls that far below your waistband. First the cheap pants, and now this? You are a fashion nightmare.”

“Shut the hell up, Winchester.” He pushed passed him, and out of the courtroom, taking care to button his jacket as he walked toward 26th.

“My precinct. My case. We’ll take my car,” Dean drawled behind him.

Castiel dropped his head back and let out all of his anger in a long groan. Driving in the city was bad enough, but driving with Detective Winchester? He didn't even want to imagine - let alone live - that experience. But, if he didn't concede, he'd be stuck with a detective who was not only annoying, but bitter and that would most likely be worse.

“Fine. You can drive, but if you say a word, I will crash your car,” he called to Dean’s back.

“Don’t even joke about that, Novak. That shit’s not funny,” Dean said, eyes stony as he slid behind the wheel.

 

The drive to the precinct was uneventful outside of all the arguing. Really, it was all Dean's fault. First, he had turned on the radio, and then Castiel changed the station, and then Dean changed it back, and when Castiel reached over to switch it again, Dean hit him, slapping him hard on the wrist.

“You hit me!” he said, the same stunned look from earlier back on his face.

“You seem surprised.”

“Of course I am! You hit me! Over the radio station! It’s very childish, Detective.” He looked at Dean, wide-eyed, clutching his ‘injured’ hand.

“You touched my radio. I know you hate me, but that’s low.” Dean glared, half-serious, at Castiel.

“No, it’s not. Your music taste is abysmal, Winchester, so I was simply tryin-“ Castiel’s explanation was interrupted by the car stopping suddenly. “What the hell? That was dangerous!” Castiel took his turn to yell, turning to face Dean who stared straight ahead, white knuckles held tight to the steering wheel.

“Get the fuck out of my car,” he seethed. He didn’t spare Castiel a glance.

“Why?! Because I insulted your music? Please! There are so many less trivial things to worry about right now, Detective!” Castiel reached over, trying to turn the ignition, only getting himself another slap. “Would you stop hitting me?”

“Look, Castiel - God your name is long and annoying,” he leaned in, “just like you. I have had the shittiest of shitty days, and so I am not ready to be disrespected by you of all people. So please,” Dean’s eyes softened and he reached down to unbuckle his seat belt. Castiel squinted, curious at the change of stance. “Please, shut the fuck up.”

Castiel took a breath, unbuckling his seat belt and turning to properly face Dean. “I’m going to say this once, because you made it very clear you don’t wish to speak to me, and lucky for you, the less time I spend with you the better.” He leaned forward, close enough to watch every movement on Dean’s face. The way his breathing slowed and his eyes dilated. How he swallowed hard, almost nervous. Scared.  “You have been nothing but disrespectful to me since the day I met you. You act like a fifth grader on a playground, and I am sick of it. So we will go to your precinct, we will get these cell phones, finish this case, and never speak to each other again. Sound good?”

Dean looked down, took a breath and looked up at Castiel. Almost as if he was disappointed.  “Yes, sounds good,” he said with nothing more than a simple nod. No sarcasm or snark. No ‘Dean Winchester’ present in any of his actions. Castiel leaned back, blinking himself out of the sort of stupor he’d been in.

“Alright, thank you, Detective, for your cooperation.” He looked down at his hands, the tension a palpable weight in between them. Fumbling for his seat belt, Dean returned the key to the ignition, radio blaring as the car started. Both Castiel and Dean reached to turn it off, and the car fell into the most uncomfortable silence either of them had experienced.

 

After about five minutes, it became unbearable. Castiel had to say something. “Why did you think stopping the car in the middle of the road was a good plan?” he asked. There was a hint of humor in his voice, but for some reason he wasn't laughing  _at_ Dean.

Almost instantly, Dean opened his mouth to offer some explanation, but none came. After a minute or two of what looked like a struggle inside his brain, he started to laugh. Eventually, he settled on, “I don’t know.” After another minute of glancing between Castiel and the road he said, “It’s a residential?”

“No, it’s not. You’re a detective, I thought you had at least minimal observation skills.” Castiel cast a look of half-serious concern towards Dean.

“I will stop the car again, Castiel,” Dean said through a laughter that seemed to be bubbling up from where he'd buried it seven minutes ago, “and this time there are really cars behind us.”

“Fine, fine, I concede.” He lifted his hands in the air in surrender, and when he dropped them back down, the car fell into a silence that wasn't uncomfortable in the slightest.

 

The twelfth precinct ran along Blue Island Avenue, and was the biggest building on the block. Plain, brick siding and large window paning gave the building an old-turned-modern feeling from the outside, while the inside was the polar opposite. The inside was just a mess.

As Dean led Castiel through the detective’s desks on the second floor, he was a little surprised. He’d spent his whole life trying to disprove stereotypes about “no fun, boring lawyers” but the “Happy Holidays” banner that still hung over the coffee pot, despite it being spring, locked in everything he’d ever heard about plainclothes detectives in his life.

“There is always a holiday afoot, Castiel, don’t judge,” Dean said, smirking. He put an arm on Castiel’s and led him to the evidence room. “Gimme a second I have to sign it out, but here.” He handed Castiel a plastic bag with a cellphone in it. He tried to turn it on by clicking the buttons through the bag, unfortunately it didn’t turn on. Even more unfortunately, Dean noticed his fiddling. “Don’t touch it,” he warned. Castiel couldn’t help but scowl at his turned head. He knew what he was doing and, in his opinion, it was quite rude of some plainclothes to just assume he didn’t.

Except, Dean Winchester wasn't just "some plainclothes".

Before he could voice his thoughts, Dean grabbed a few pairs of gloves from the table next to them, took the bag back from Castiel and walked over to the captain’s office.

“Jody, I pulled a phone from the Milligan case. I’m taking it to court, just letting you know.”  
Captain Mills looked up from her work. “Thank you, Detective.” Then, she noticed Castiel next to him, “Oh, hello, Mr. Novak.”  
“Hello, Captain Mills,” he said with a polite nod. In return, she stood and shook his hand.

“Please, Jody is fine. Why are you joining Detective Winchester at our precinct today?”

Castiel looked over at Dean, hesitating because, now that he thought about it, there was no reason for him to be there. Really, the prosecuting attorney should have been here. This evidence was going to condemn Milligan and Castiel would lose the case. So, why _was_ he here?  
“Cas here is good company,” Dean offered, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “I asked him to join me.”

Jody eyed Dean, her eyes both questioning and insinuating something that made Castiel squirm.

"Is that the case, _Castiel_?" she asked, when she refocused.

Shaking his head, he plucked Dean’s hand off his body, almost throwing it to the side. “I’m here to make sure Dean doesn’t tamper with the evidence to benefit his side of the case.”

The captain nodded a little slower than she might’ve if she believed him.  “Well, I can assure you that _Detective Winchester,”_ she stressed the formality, “is very trustworthy.”

With a little nod, Castiel tapped Dean on the shoulder before turning to exit. Before he could leave though, Captain Mills spoke up again, “Mr. Novak, I like your leggings.”

Ever grateful that he was turned away, Castiel flushed red around the same time Dean started laughing. “I like them too,” he said.

"Dean, the sag you're rocking isn't much better. I recommend you boys get some new pants before you walk back into that courthouse."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said, seemingly unembarrassed by the whole ordeal. And while Castiel nodded almost solemnly and slunk out the door, Dean gave a small salute to his captain before leaving with Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm grace, I'm [hhoneycas](www.hhoneycas.tumblr.com) on tumblr, and thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lunchtime adventures of mortal enemies Dean and Castiel!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought they were bonding? There's a "Greatest Showman" quote I could put here that I won't, but I will say that it's up in the air.
> 
> Also, this fic is about to surpass my abandoned WIP in terms of how well it's done and that makes me very happy so kudos are EXTRA appreciated!

When they got back in the car, Dean was still laughing and Castiel was still embarrassed.

“So,” Dean said, finally regaining control of his diaphragm, “do you want to get lunch?”

Turning to the detective with a glare firm on his face, he asked, “And why would I want to do that?”

Dean shrugged. “Dunno. You’re hungry?” He was already shifting the car into gear.

Groaning, he ran his fingers through his hair and momentarily forgot why he ever put up with Detective Winchester. 

The worst part though, was that Castiel was actually hungry. He would never admit that he was because no matter how much his stomach was suffering from his lack of breakfast, sharing a meal with the man next to him would be worse than actual starvation. 

If he’d been alone, he’d have gone home and gotten food and a new pair of pants, but that was off the table. Or maybe not.

Pausing, Castiel ran through the timetable in his head. They’d already wasted thirty. It’d add another twenty and the trip back would be twenty again. He could do it.

“Alright,” he said, much to the surprise of Dean.

He could feel the detective’s shocked eyes on him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, formulating the rest of his plan inside of his head.

After another moment where the detective appeared to buffer, he shook whatever confusion he’d had off and said, “Cool, where do you want to go?”

Cas blinked a couple times, unprepared for the offer to choose. He really thought he’d have to ask and argue like with everything they’d done, but Dean had just given him the reins. Odd. 

“There’s this place I enjoy up on Lake Street, does that work?”

With a shake of his head, Dean said, “Sure, Castiel, we’ll go all the way to Lake Street just for your lunch.” Still, he started the car.

“You offered!” Castiel said, far too loudly out of fear of his plan failing. 

Once again, Castiel had lost track of exactly how many times, Dean started laughing at him. “Dude, I know. Sarcasm. Never heard of it?” At Castiel’s less than pleased stare he simply said, “Lawyers really are the worst.”

It took five minutes and a chorus of angry Chicago drivers practically laying on their horns for Dean to change his tone. “I can’t believe we’re going to fucking Lake street right now. Could have just had lunch in Little Italy instead of trying to get on the freeway at fucking noon,” he mumbled, almost as if Castiel wasn’t even there. 

Pulling his attention away from the University buildings that lined Taylor Street, Castiel turned to look at Dean. “Is there any reason for your sudden change in attitude, Detective? Or are you simply being difficult?” Dean opened his mouth to answer when the man next to him spoke again. “Like always.”

Something about the comment flipped a switch inside Dean and every complaint about the freeway and traffic disappeared from his mind. “Are you kidding, Castiel?”

Castiel slowly turned his head toward Dean. “No. Of course not.” Castiel wasn’t one to joke around and if he did, it wasn’t often about his hatred for Dean Winchester. That was something everyone around him knew as fact.

“Oh, I knew you were an ass but I didn’t know you were that big of one,” Dean said, glancing over to Castiel. He was almost scanning him, like he was looking for evidence he’d missed. Some glaring mistake in the man’s features or appearance that would have told him, right from the get-go, that Castiel Novak was the worst person he’d ever met.

“I’m not an asshole, I’m simply stating facts.” In a mock of Dean’s earlier move, Castiel brought his finger up to the center of his forehead and down to his other hand, palms up, tapping it twice.  _ Facts.  _ His eyes were unimpressed.

Recognizing the sign, Dean mumbled, “Facts, yeah, sure.”

“It’s something I’ve noticed, Detective, and if you were any good at your job I’m sure you would have too.” He said it so nonchalant, so blasé that when he returned his gaze to the window, Dean had to make sure the whole interaction wasn’t fabricated. And then the words hit him.  _ If you were any good at your job.  _

The traffic in front of them remained at a standstill so he turned to look at Castiel’s profile trying to search out the meaning behind the words. But, much to Dean’s utter dismay, clairvoyance wasn’t taught at the Chicago Police Academy. So, he asked. “Do you really think that?” The change in emotion was detectable in his voice, but Castiel wasn’t quite keen on that detail. 

Instead, he said, “Yes. I assume you’re impossible to work with and I have no doubt in my mind that your records show the same thing.” He didn’t even look at Dean.

Dean looked back at the road, trying to hold it together. Castiel had been right to challenge his authority on the stand, but here, here it was unbearable. 

The lawyer opened his mouth to comment but Dean spoke before he could. “Okay, stop!” Castiel started as one of Deans hands slammed violently against the wheel. His eyes, however, remained steely and facing the road. Every emotion appeared in his voice as he spoke slowly. “My reviews, reports, numbers, arrests, and my evaluations all say the same damn thing. I’m good at my job - damn good at my job.” His shoulders rose and fell back down again, tensions slipping out of them. He turned, finally, to look at the man in his passenger seat. Sighing, he said, “I don’t care that you hate me, Castiel, I really don’t, but maybe take a step back before you say ignorant bullshit like that again.”

Yet another uncomfortable silence fell over the car. Dean had no desire to keep up a pleasantry-filled conversation neither of them wanted to be a part of. And Castiel, for all his years of learning how to refute and rebut anything, cleverly and articulately, was at a massive loss for words. 

Finally looking up from his hands, he said, “I’m sorry, detective.” 

Dean’s knuckles turned white where they gripped the wheel before relaxing again. “Yeah. I would be too.” And when he glanced sideways, the disappointment in the detective’s eyes left Castiel speechless once again.

Eventually, the anger in the car deflated, finally fizzling out as they exited I-90. Neither of them would admit to it, too entrenched in their bitterness, but they were glad. Anger, real anger like that, wasn’t good for either of them in either of their lines of work. Sure, neither of them liked each other, and hate was an appropriate word at times, but it had always been harmless. Hatred outlined with respect. Hopefully, a respect they could find again. 

 

They pulled onto Lake street and about halfway down the block, Castiel told Dean he could pull off the road. “It’s right around here.” Miraculously, there was a spot right on the street.

The car shut off and Cas climbed out, pulling out his keys. He didn’t bother waiting for Dean, nor did he care about leaving him on the street, he just walked into the glass paneled apartment building they’d pulled in front of. 

By the time Dean had slammed his own door, the words, “So where is this place?” died on his tongue. Castiel had disappeared behind the revolving door, almost marching up to his apartment.

Before following him, Dean did a scan of the building. Enough glass that a stone could take the whole thing down, dead in the middle of a shopping area, and from a glance beyond the glass, he could see modern designs and furnishings. It looked uncomfortable, distinguished and just about exactly how he’d expected the apartment building of the worst person in the world to look. 

The anger from their earlier spat flooded back into his veins and he walked up to the building. Pushing through the normal door, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Castiel’s long coat enter the elevator.

“Hold the door!” He called, almost frantically, and a little too loudly for the tastes of some of the people in the lobby. But there’d be no way of knowing which apartment was Castiel’s if he wasn’t on that elevator. Thankfully, a familiar hand worked itself between the door and the frame of the elevator just in time for Dean to slip in.

“Oh, hello, Detective. What are you doing in the elevator?” Castiel said, as if he hadn’t just left Dean alone on the sidewalk.   
“Well,” he said, weighing his hands like scales, “I wasn’t so sure if I should follow you up.” He leaned almost comically close to Castiel and raised a hand to the side of his mouth. “I’m not so used to the whole ‘personal chauffeur’ thing because it’s not my job!”

The mumble of something affirmative coupled with a small nod fueled the fire Dean was riding on.

“Seriously, Castiel, what the fuck?”

Another noncommittal shrug. “You said I could chose, I’d like to have my lunch at my apartment.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Okay.” That was it.

The elevator dinged on the sixth floor. As if Dean wasn’t there, Castiel walked out of the elevator and down the hall, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Following after a beat, he resumed his tirade. “When I said, ‘let’s get lunch’, I meant us,” he gestured a little frantically between them, “the two of us, getting lunch. Together. Not you locking me out of your apartment and lording whatever health-freak sandwich you make over my sad and hungry body.”

“I’m happy to feed you, Detective.” Well, “happy” may not have been the correct word, but Castiel’s shirt was far too damp and he was far too hungry to care.

“Oh, no. I don’t want whatever rabbit food you’re going to feed me. I’ll just stay outside and wait,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest in some half-assed act of defiance. 

Fishing around in his jacket pockets, Castiel said, “Your complaining won’t stop if you stay outside. Come in, sit down, and if you insist on continuing to act like an insolent child, maybe watching some television will calm you down.”

“Oh, please, I’m not going into your dumb apartment. I bet even sitting down in it would make me a dick. I don’t want to go in-” The last word fell off as Castiel turned the key in the lock and the door swung open into the apartment. 

 

Dean Winchester was not used to being wrong. Sure, he’d had to try a couple times to get the answer to a case, but he’d never abandoned a case, he’d never missed more than details, and he’d _never_ been as far off base as he was then. 

Castiel’s apartment was beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful where it would be featured in some sort of design piece for Chicago Magazine but the kind of beautiful that anyone saw in their own apartment after a long, long day. The exception was that it was perpetual. 

Dean had never stepped foot in the place in his life and he just wanted to collapse on the soft black leather couch.

Soft shades of blue spread from the blankets draped over the back of the couch to the table cloth in the dining room and even to the large curtains hanging on the back window. The rest of the place, pillows, carpets, and the art hung on the walls was covered in different greens and yellows. Dean could feel himself pulled towards the comfort of the space.

Thankfully, as he stepped onto the carpet that looked too soft compared to Castiel’s hard ass personality, his resolve held. “Nice place,” he said, voice devoid of emotion. 

“Thank you,” Castiel said, laying his jacket on one of the cushioned bar stools. Bar stools that Dean thought would be perfect for resting one’s feet on at the end of a long pursuit or even a day of desk duty. And given the day they’d had? Dean really wanted to. He didn’t. He just stood by the door and watched Castiel absentmindedly flip through his mail which ironically included a copy of Chicago Magazine.

When he’d sorted the bills from the junk and Dean had finally smothered his urge to wrap himself in the knit blanket inches out of his reach, Castiel turned to him. Dean hadn’t noticed it before, but the lawyer in front of him looked very uncomfortable. 

One glance around the room told him why. 

Dean saw the books on the table, the sticky notes barely stuck to the fridge, photos of Castiel and his family and friends, and the CDs on the television stand and realized that they were all windows into his life. Pieces of Castiel’s life that he cared enough about to put out in his entryway, but also deadbolted behind a door.

Dean was probably the  _ last  _ person Castiel wanted in his home. Dean, the detective, trained to notice and pick apart, was standing in Castiel’s home. Dean, with whom Castiel had shared a history of judgement and disdain, stood in sight of his vulnerability.

Of course he was fucking miserable. Dean would be too.

“So, lunch?” he offered, trying to clear the air.

Castiel blinked several times before appearing to return to reality. “Sure,” he said, looking around his own kitchen like he’d forgotten where he kept the food. After a moment of pathetic fumbling, he stopped and took a breath. He turned to Dean again.

“You probably want,” he dropped a hand to his side an snapped the elastic of the leggings against his leg, “these back.” He didn’t meet Dean’s eyes but shifted from foot to foot and wrung his hands together.

Dean just nodded in response.

“I’ll go change then.” He took steps and turned a third time. “I can see if I have a pair of pants that might fit you.”   
Some part of Dean remembered then that he was wearing Castiel’s wet pants. “Sounds good,” he said, both calming the nervous man before him and very grateful for the offer. 

“Then I will change and make some food.” He started to walk off, catching the wall before he was totally out of sight and saying, “Make yourself at home, the couch is quite comfortable.” Then with a smile he shut the bedroom door.

Dean toed off his shoes, shrugged off his own coat and put it on the chair next to Castiel’s. Wiggling his toes in the carpet a few times (it really was as soft as he had thought), he walked over to the oh-so-inviting couch and flopped down onto it. It seemed to cradle him and Dean felt like he’d been wrapped in a cloud. Castiel was right. It was  _ quite  _ comfortable. And hey, if Castiel had taste like this, maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You may be right, you may be wrong/But say that you'll bring me along" - A Million Dreams, The Greatest Showman
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late, I've been sick a couple days and let it get away from me. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

Two white plates were placed on the table with a soft thump, pulling Dean’s attention from his twitter feed.

“It isn’t ‘rabbit food’, so I figured I would offer,” Castiel said, sitting down on the matching chair across from him. He’d shed his coat and changed his clothes, now outfitted in a different pair of black slacks, a blue button up and a black tie. The clothing looked comfortable, but he still didn’t. His back was straight and his hands remained firmly in his lap. “And these,” he said, moving a solitary finger to indicate a pair of black pants that sat between the plates.

“Thank you.”

Cas nodded. He was absentmindedly pulling away the crusts of his sandwich, not really focusing on Dean. “You should try those on.”

Dean set his phone down and exchanged it for the slacks. “Thank you.”

He returned and they ate in silence. Dean picked at the crust of his sandwich, pulling off sections until there wasn’t much left on his plate.

Castiel had said they needed to talk but so far, neither of them were interested in starting a conversation.

Dean watched Castiel chewed unbearably slowly on his last bite of PB&J, trying so desperately to extend the period of silence, and gave up his own resolve.

“What did you want to talk about?”

With a labored sigh, Castiel stood. Dean turned and watched as he collected both of their plates and walked over to the sink, wordlessly cleaning the minimal crumbs off of them. When he forewent the dish rack in favor of hand towels, Dean walked over to the counter himself.

“Dude, what’s up?”

Between them the plate clattered loudly into the sink. Dean reached over and gently placed it in the drying rack.

He scanned the space they were in. Nothing _felt_ wrong, nothing _looked_ wrong, but something was definitely wrong. Dean’s first thought was himself. If he was being honest, he was most likely catalyst for the situation before him but he also hadn’t done anything.

The next logical conclusion was that something had happened while Castiel was in his room. An upsetting phone call? Dean had been on the receiving end of enough of those to know that if that were the case, he wanted out. Now. Still, he didn’t move from the counter.

When he looked back, tension seemed to vibrate of Castiel’s shoulders and Dean rethought his choice to enter the apartment. He wanted to desperately to escape the situation and leave Castiel and his issues behind him and yet, some part of him knew he couldn’t.

“Goddamnit.” Dean took a long breath and stared at the man in front of him, on the verge of breaking down over his sink. What in fresh hell was he supposed to do about that?

Dean knew about comforting people, he talked to the relatives of dead people almost for a living, but comforting people who had never shown emotions other than “pissed off”? He was at a major loss.

The longer he stood there, the more uncomfortable he became. He just stared, hands poised to catch whatever was bound to be hurled at him the second Castiel spoke. But it never came. They both stood frozen, the lawyer who’d lost to emotion and the detective out of ideas. What a bang up pair they made.

Eventually, Dean reached a point where he couldn’t handle it. It was either have an emotionally charged conversation with an emotionally stunted man that was bound to end poorly or drag an inert Castiel back to a courtroom where no one was really a fan of him to begin with. Neither of those were pleasant options.

He picked the lesser of the evils.

Dropping to his elbow, Dean leaned on the counter to properly look Castiel in the eyes. “Castiel.”

Castiel just looked at the drain and shook his head, not sparing a glance up to Dean. His fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter, turning red where they pressed against the unfiled underside of the soapstone.

After a long and thoroughly uncomfortable pause, Castiel reached above his head and grabbed a water class from the dark cabinet there. Just as slowly and meticulously as he’d done everything else, he filled it and took a long sip. Then, he finally spoke. “Do you ever hate your job, Detective?” He turned around and leaned up against the counter, facing Dean who took a minute to think on the unexpected question.

“Uhm, paperwork is a bitch and working with people like you isn’t great, but no, never.”

It was true. Dean’s job was his whole life and he enjoyed the hell out of it, even the more annoying parts or people involved.

Castiel didn’t seem to share the same sentiment. “Lucky you.”

And for just a second, Dean looked him up and down trying to find his tell, his one nervous tick that showed Dean he lied because Castiel _had_ to be lying. There was no way Castiel fucking Novak hated his job.

Castiel Novak was the guy who had a barely noticeable smile on his face during every cross-examination he was getting ahead on. He was the guy who looked at case files with something akin to awe. He had fun tearing into complacent witnesses like Dean. He always did a dance in the washroom after juries declared his clients “not guilty”.  He doodled geometric shapes on his notepads.

Castiel Novak couldn’t hate his job, it didn’t make sense.

Then again, people rarely made sense. Dean had solved his first murder and stared at the file folder for days wondering how someone had the gall to do that to a person. He’d dragged perps away kicking and screaming, not for freedom, but to get another swing at the person who’d informed on them. Not liking a job seemed a lot less outlandish when he put it in perspective.

Still, he had to ask, “Why?”

“Sometimes, and this happens to be one of those times, being a defense attorney is fucking miserable.”

That wasn’t much help. “Why?” he asked again, determined now to find out what was destroying the morale of the county’s best public defenders.

“You, for one,” Castiel replied with a pointed stare at Dean. “Milligan, for another. The DA for a third and fourth would have to be me, Detective. The fourth problem is me.” There was a pause as he refilled his water. He glanced quickly between the cupboard and Dean, a silent offering. When it was declined, he began to walk back to the couch. “I have such a skewed sense of duty that I let criminals and burglars and murderers walk. I despise myself.”

Dean had to destroy every nerve in his body that wanted to say, “That’s why cops hate you too,” and instead kept up his supportive role. “So, then why are you still doing it?”

Castiel said the word, “You”, so softly that Dean was sure he’d misheard.

“What?”

Setting his water down, he turned to look Dean in the eyes for the first time since they’d stepped foot in the apartment. “I never told you, because I don’t seek out your company, but I met your brother a few years ago at a conference. He gave a speech about how his older brother would have a record stained so dark you couldn’t see it if not for the public defenders that took his various cases.”

Dean was the one to break eye contact. Sam hadn’t told him that story.

“So yes," Castiel continued, "there are some bad people I let slip through my fingers, but for every vagrant correctly charged with a B&E, there’s a teenage boy who only stole a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. That’s why I do this.”

It was some pretty rock solid reasoning. At least, not any Dean could disagree with given that he was the focal point of this whole thing. As much as he loathed them now, every attorney who told him it was going to be okay made it a little easier for him, and if that's what Novak was doing for

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know how many people Milligan killed, but I do know he’s a killer." His hard set eyes met Dean's and they held a passion behind them so furious he felt like he should back away.  So, I am going to do my job and pray that you do yours.”

As the words and the dust of Castiel’s revelation settled, the room fell silent. Dean let the weight of the statement collect on his shoulders as a small panic seemed to crowd around him. _Pray that you do yours._ What a task.

He watched Castiel watch the water in his glass, staring intently at nothing. There was something poking in the back of his brain telling him that he _couldn’t_ fuck this up. So, he ran through what he knew. Milligan. Three bodies. One knife and a cell phone he hadn’t looked at it (emotional flip-flopping of the most stoic people they knew would distract a person like that).

All of it left him with the same question: How did one man kill three people without any of them getting more than a yard away? It was impossible. _One man_ couldn’t do it.

“Say that again,” he said, eyes snapping to Castiel’s tired face.

Castiel looked at him, posture unchanged but his eyes narrowed on Dean. “I’m going to do my job and pray you do yours?”

“No, the beginning,” he said, insistence creeping into his voice. Anticipation simmered below his skin, keeping him on the edge of the couch, poised to jump off it and into action.

“I don’t know how many people Milligan killed, but I know he’s a killer?”

“Yes!” Dean stood almost instantly and brought the tone of the room up with him. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table, his keys from his pocket and a banana from the bowl on top of the counter, the breakthrough pumping adrenaline to every extremity.

From somewhere behind him, Dean could hear Castiel stand and walk up to him. “Detective, what’s going on?”

Dean grabbed their jackets from their respective chairs and tossed the trench coat to Castiel. “I’m doing my job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why this is getting so emo, I'll try to pull it back. But! I promise the next one'll be very exciting ;))


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thought Castiel was done being dragged around Chicago by the one person he doesn't care for? Think again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I didn't update for a week, big sorry, but here's this long boy of a chapter, I hope y'all like it. Let me know!!
> 
> (Oh, also, dialogue heavy!)

Rushing to shrug his own jacket over his shoulders, Cas grabbed his keys and locked the apartment behind him. “Detective, what the hell do you mean by ‘doing your job’?” he asked once they both stopped to wait for the elevator.

Dean just stared up at the digital numbers slowly counting down from 28. His foot tapped against the carpet and his eyes kept flicking to every place they could. Counting down from 14. Dean pulled his phone out of the pocket of his borrowed pants. From what Castiel could see outside the glare, it wasn’t Twitter for the third time that day, but a text conversation. His fingers moved quickly over the digital keyboard and Dean’s attention only veered from it to look up at the numbers counting down from 10.

He finally slipped the device back into his pocket at the number 8 and said, “I’ll explain in the car.”

The empty elevator opened before them on floor 6, but before Dean could step inside, Castiel had a hand on the door. “Or, you could tell me now.”

Dean deflated before him, clenching his fists in an anger he wanted to act on but didn’t. “I can’t. I shouldn’t even tell you at all.” He moved to slip past, but Castiel met him where he was, a firm hand on his chest.

“Detective Winchester, I will _not_ let you drag me around the city inexplicably when we have a courtroom to return to in twenty minutes. So, you _will_ tell me what the hell you are doing before I let you on this elevator.”

Something flashed behind Dean’s eyes before he took Castiel by the wrist, pulling his hand away and holding him there, the threshold of the elevator between them. An intensity seemed to flow between them, neither wanting to give up their stance.

Then, something buzzed. Dean dropped Castiel’s hand to reach for his phone, shouldering his way into the elevator as he answered it.

Castiel just looked at Dean, anger buzzing under his skin. Fucking detectives.

Noticing the cautious eye Dean kept on him as the doors closed and he pushed the button for the lobby, Castiel brought his finger to his chin and down to his sternum. _Tell me._

Dean just wiggled his fingers at him, phone held on his shoulder. _Wait._

“Hey, Ellen.”

Before Castiel could stop himself his was speaking. “Oh, fuck you, Detective.” Ellen? Dean had gone from hateful to impartial to what Castiel had thought of as a polite solidarity, but now he was just back to throwing him under the bus. How brilliant.

Dean barely looked up at him, just turning his body enough so that Castiel could see his hands. _Thank you._ “Did you do it?” The rumbling of the elevator covered the prosecutor’s words, but by the looks of it, it wasn’t the response Dean was expecting. “I need this time, Ellen!” he said, beginning to bounce on his feet.

He almost jumped out of the elevator when it opened to the lobby. When he started to pace several yards back and forth, Castiel just watched, not daring to disturb something that was so obviously not his place. As Dean burned a hole in the floor, he caught small pieces of the conversation.

“You can’t do this case without your star witness, Ellen,” followed by a concerning, “Maybe I will walk in front of a car then, if that’s what it takes!” after which came a series of “Yes, Ma’am”s that had _Castiel_ scared for him.

Finally, after several minutes of tense and awkward waiting, Dean hung up the phone and walked over to him. “Let’s dip,” he said and tried to pull an unmoving Castiel towards the doors. Looking back when he was met with heavy resistance, Dean just sighed and faced Castiel again. The silent question of “what?” hung between them.

“Dean, tell me what is happening.”

One of Dean’s hands landed on his shoulder. “Look,” he said, staring at Castiel, “I am trying to get a win for us - for me - and I can’t tell you exactly until I have the information in front of me.” He dropped his hands and looked him in the eyes. He looked hopeful, like he needed a positive answer from him.

Castiel looked back and gave a small nod. “Alright, Detective, I trust you.”

Every muscle in Dean’s shoulders relaxed and he dropped his hand. “Thank you.” Smoothing his hands down his jacket, he glanced around before looking up at Castiel once more. “Let’s go.”

 

As they walked up to the car, Dean went to the trunk, digging around before pulling out a box. A box stamped with the Chicago PD emblem.   
“Is that a box of...”

Dean looked up at him. “Case files? Evidence? Shit I’m really not supposed to have outside of my precinct? Sure is.” He flashed a smile before roughly handing Castiel the box.

Castiel, now holding the box, stood on the sidewalk for several moments before Dean’s head and shoulders popped up from the other side of the car. “C’mon, we’re going!”

Putting the box under one arm, Castiel opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Detective-”  
“Dude,” Dean said, turning to him, shifting the car into gear as he spoke, “it’s a box.”

“It’s a box of things you aren’t supposed to be in possession of, Dean!”

“Oh, please, like you’ve never broken a rule.” Castiel opened his mouth to protest but was quickly silenced but a firm hand landing on the box. “No, we’re not talking about this, we’re solving this.” He gave another tap to the cardboard lid and moved back to his side of the car. The car pulled away from the curb and took them in the direction of the precinct.

Five minutes in, Castiel got curious. He slid the lid off the box and before he could reach a hand in Dean’s hand was back in his space, reaching blindly for his arm. “That’s my box, you can’t touch it,” he said, hand flailing.

Castiel grabbed the detective’s hand, firmly returning it to its half of the bench. “You cannot talk to me about rules, Detective.”

There was a heavy sigh from the driver’s seat. “Fine, but don’t go digging around in there like you own the place, I’ve got it organized how I like and if you fuck it up, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“Understood, Detective,” Castiel said, reaching back into the box and pulling out the stamped case file.

“So in there should be crime scene photos. You aren’t squeamish are you?”

Flipping to the photos in question, Castiel said, “No, are you?”

“Normally, yes, but I’ve seen too many stab wounds to have it bug me anymore,” Dean said with a candor Castiel hadn’t expected.

The first photo wasn’t too graphic, a wide shot of all three bodies, bloodied, but otherwise, nothing gruesome. The three that followed were a different story. Up close images, in pure focus, of the wounds.

“Pretty bad, yeah?”

Castiel just nodded.

The first image, labeled as the mother, Kate Milligan, was the worst. The two that followed were clean wounds, wide and deep, yes, but Kate’s body seemed to have been gnawed on, shredded by whatever she’d been killed with.

“Is that the mom?”

Another nod. Castiel didn’t trust himself with words, nor did he trust his stomach.

Closing the folder, he turned to Dean. “Why is it so…”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Open that back up.”

Castiel hesitated, fingers under the top of the folder, but not opening it. “I’m not sure I want to, Detective.”  
The car stopped at the red light in front of them and Dean looked at Castiel. “Then don’t,” he said, sincerity crawling into his voice. “Open past it. Photos of the weapon. It’ll be bloody, but not grisly.”

With a sigh, Castiel flipped to the paper clipped section. Crime tech photos of a long and wide silver knife, laying bloody on the floor were the first ones he saw. The next were similar images but of a different knife. Sure, the blade was identical, but the blood stains were different, the carpet underneath it a different pattern. Flipping through the rest, different angles and bagged photos among them, Castiel saw no other knife.

“There’s no way that this could have done _that_ to Kate Milligan.”

Dean nodded furiously, glancing from the road to Castiel to the folder open on his lap several times before he spoke. “That’s it. I didn’t think about it the first time because I’ve seen the shit simple knifes can do.” He shuddered at what Castiel assumed was a memory before continuing, “But when you said you didn’t know how many people Milligan killed, it kind of clicked.”

Castiel couldn’t help but remember that he was _not_ the detective in this scenario. “I’m not following.”

Fortunately, Dean kept on explaining, “Well, in the box should be the cellphone we grabbed earlier.” The quick looks became sustained stares as Castiel pulled the phone from the box. Inattention was dangerous in the city, but his excitement had pushed past whatever self-control he had. He wanted to see Castiel catch on.

The phone was set on the seat between the two of them as Castiel shut the box and placed it in the footwell. “Are we allowed to look at it?”

“Look? Hell yeah, it’s evidence, I’m a cop, it’s my case. Touching on the other hand, no fucking way. Don’t open the bag.” Keeping both hands on the wheel, Dean moved the bag over to Castiel who picked it up.

“It’s a cellphone,” he observed to Dean’s amusement.

“That it is.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

Dean glanced at him, to the phone and to his own where it sat on the dash. Nodding to it, he said, “Call Ellen.”

Castiel just stared. “I am not calling the prosecutor.”

The car then lurched to a stop, sending the cellphone flying into Castiel’s lap. “Call her. Password’s 0124.”

Curious, Castiel asked, “Badge number?” as he unlocked the phone.

“Birthday,” Dean answered while Castiel scrolled through the contacts list. When the ringing on speaker filled the car, they both went silent.

One, then two, then three and four rings went by before Ellen’s rough voice answered. “I got your leave and twelve angry jurors.” No pleasantries, Castiel noticed as he often did the same. Business was priority one and he was always on a timeline.

“And my warrant?” Dean asked, prompting an involuntary look of confusion from the passenger side.

There was a heavy sigh that came across the phone’s tiny speaker before Ellen said anything. “He wants an affidavit.”

Another red light offered Dean ample time to react to her words. He let out a long and loud groan and dropped his head on the steering wheel, not moving even to speak. “Can I do it over the phone? We’re already on our way to the precinct.”

Yet another look from Castiel who’d just realized he’d had no idea where they were going.

“Fine, let me ask” Ellen said. The sound of a wood chair moving could be heard as Dean and Castiel both assumed she walked over to the stand. Quiet, muffled tones came across but no real words. “He says, ‘What in God’s name led him to believe he could do an affidavit over the phone?’.”

That only elicited another groan from Dean. “Damn it.”

“Sorry, Dean. On the bright side, you’ve got twenty fours hours before we have to be in court again.”

Dean grunted his assent and hung up the phone, either knowing Ellen wouldn’t have bothered with a goodbye or too upset to conjure one himself.

They drove for another two minutes, Dean fuming at the windshield, before he spoke again. “Will you get the form from the box?”

“You keep affidavits in your possession?”

Shrugging, Dean said, “I figured I’d need one.”

Castiel reached down into the box a third time, pulling out a stack of papers and a pen and singling out the one that read “AFFIDAVIT FOR SEARCH WARRANT: Commonwealth of Chicago”. He filled out the information he knew before turning to Dean for the more complicated answers. Answers that he rattled off as if he had them memorized.

“And lastly, ‘I have personal knowledge of the facts set forth in this affidavit and/or  I was advised of the facts set forth in this affidavit, in whole or in part, by one or more other person(s)’.”  
“Personal knowledge.” And the car shut off beneath them. In front of the twelfth precinct and now the courthouse.

Castiel just looked around at the city-sanctioned trees and the cars that passed them by, so entirely confused that he thought for a second, he may have been dreaming. Until Dean rapped his fingers against his window, pulling his attention there.

“Get out, yuppie. I’ve got a criminal to catch.”

 

Castiel caught up to him quickly as he walked over to Alex’s desk. “Hey, can you scan this for me?”  
She held her hand out for the paper, almost completely ignoring him until she said, “You know, the scanner works via your hands too, Dean.”

Already walking away, he called back, “You know me, Jones, things to see, people to do.”

“Gross.”

“Should’ve expected it, Alex,” a voice said from behind him. When he turned to look, there was a uniformed Benny with a confused as hell Castiel in tow.

“Hey, Benny.”

“Hey.” He looked from Castiel to Dean and back again. “You know, when I saw him,” he gestured to Castiel, “I figured he’d been brought in for your murder, but I guess, seeing you, your tweets sometimes lie.”  
Castiel turned another glare at him. “You tweeted about me again?”

Dean just shrugged, responding with words only to Benny, “Sorry about that, man. Guess I don’t really know the rules for babysitting lawyers.”

“You are not babysitting me, Detective.”

Still, he kept talking. “I guess it’s like a three year old. Old enough to communicate, but not enough to fend for themselves,” he said with a shrug. His eyes remained firmly _off_ Castiel’s, a blatant refusal to admit what he was doing, to the character change he was making.

Beside them, Benny gave them both wary glances, trying to gauge the conversation as Castiel grew more and more upset and Dean spoke more and more.

“Sorry to stick you with him, I know he’s the worst-”

“Detective Winchester,” Castiel’s voice seemed to ring through his ears, low and slow and very, eerily, calm. “I suggest you shut up before you end up on the receiving end of the consequences I intend to dole out.”

Finally, Dean’s eyes met his. “Well what am I gonna do? I’m not gonna harp on Benny! Benny’s a _good_ _guy_ ,” Dean said, an unneeded malice thrown in for good measure.

He got a glare in return, one that could probably destroy him if he looked too long. Instead though, Castiel grabbed Dean by the eblow and pulled him aside.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Officer Lafitte escape back to the break room, but his attention was focused on Dean.

“Detective, I understand you are upset. I understand that you are on a time limit. I get it.” He looked Dean hard in the eyes. “But, there is no excuse for you to be so mean to me when I am helping you.”

The detective actually scoffed at his words, turning away to avoid connecting his fist with Castiel’s jaw. “No,” he said, returning Castiel’s stare with an equally cold one of his own. “I am helping _your_ conscience. You don’t get to play hero when I’m doing the work.”

Before Castiel could respond, Dean’s phone interrupted them yet again.

 

_Ellen Harvelle:_

_You got your warrant._

 

And with that it seemed all of the anger flooded out of Dean’s system. He was still tense, Castiel could see it in his eyes and the way he held himself, but he wasn’t angry anymore and that seemed more important.

“Thank fuck.”

But before he could celebrate too much, the captain ducked her head out of her office. “Detective, can I speak with you for a sec?” Casting a way glance to Castiel, he followed before Mills spoke again, “Mr. Novak? You too.”

 

Castiel hadn’t felt like he was in trouble since middle school, but sitting in front of the captain’s desk brought back distinct memories of his feet barely scratching the carpet in the principal's office.

“Detective, you’re going to the Milligan apartment?”

“Yep.”

“And this Honesty Brigade is coming with you?”

Dean was slower to respond. “Yes, ma’am.”

She fixed Castiel with a glare to rival some of his own. “Useless,” she said. She’d spoken under her breath, not really at him, but most certainly _about_ him.

“Excuse me,” he started, and ignoring Dean’s look of fear cast in his direction, Castiel stood and spoke, “Captain Mills, I will have you know that my job-” she stopped him with a hand.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Novak,” Captain Mills said, stepping around the desk, “your career is very valuable, most of my daughters would be in homes, juvie, or the system without their attorneys, including your niece. So, for that I’m grateful, but your incessant patrol of my best detective is absolutely worthless.”

Dean stepped in between the two of them then, facing Captain Mills. “Captain, it’s okay, no harm done.”  
Mills just shook her head, moving back to her chair. “Fine. Take him, but if he jacks up your case, it’s on your head, Winchester.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, following his words with a polite exchange of nods. Castiel felt a hand near his elbow, dragging him out of the office, through the bullpen, and back through the door.

In the car, he asked, “Claire’s your niece?”

“She has my last name, _Detective,_ ” Castiel said, sparing nothing. “And technically, she’s my first cousin once removed.”

“Right.” There was a distinct pause, during which he was very literally picking a choosing his next words. “You know, she hated me for a bit too. I guess it runs in the family.”

As always, Castiel’s response spared nothing. “Perhaps.”

“Well, _perhaps_ you’ll get over it too.”

“I doubt it detective, but I appreciate the sentiment.” And Castiel turned to look out his window, covering the car in a silence once again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao, this is so wild, does it even make sense? Idk, I'm having fun writing it so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It was five minutes before Dean was turning down Laflin, down an alley, and parking in a lot behind the businesses on Taylor.

“Folder,” he said, holding out a hand. Castiel put the folder there and watched as Dean opened it to the overview. His movements were quick, tinged with anticipation and stress. “1447 west Taylor,” he muttered, shutting the folder and putting it under his armpit. Without words, he climbed out of the car, walking back the way they came.

Castiel caught up to him quickly, catching him by the arm before he could escape. “Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas?” he asked with a tired look in his eyes that Castiel hadn’t caught before.

Castiel looked from the envelope Dean held to the gravel beneath them and finally up to Dean’s eyes. “Am I allowed on the scene?” It was a question he had to ask, no matter how excited he was at the prospect of following Dean on his case. He couldn’t risk his job for a stroll through his third grade daydreams.

“Yeah, sure.” And Dean kept down the alley towards Laflin, too focused on his own mission to give Castiel any more than that. The childish part of Castiel’s brain took that as plenty of reason to keep going and so he followed, matching Dean’s eager step.

They stopped in front of a plain brick building, the only defining feature of which was a large red door they didn’t go through. Instead, they entered through a boring white door marked by police tape.

Before stepping over the threshold, they took a moment to look at the scene before them. Inside what about what Castiel had expected. There was the residue of blood on the carpeting and the wood, chairs were knocked over, and there was an open window, curtains flapping in the wind.

“Can we go in?” Castiel asked.

Wordlessly, Dean fished a plastic bag full of gloves from his front pocket, grabbed from somewhere in the precinct when Castiel hadn’t noticed. “Put the booties on your feet and the gloves on your hands and you can do whatever you want,” he turned a dangerous eye on Castiel, “except move _anything._ This is still a crime scene, still an open case, still _my_ open case. You, as the defense attorney, are still an _enormous_ liability and if you screw _anything_ up, I’ll find a way to end your career.” He blinked and it was gone. Castiel’s attention moved to the bag in front of him, pulling out what he needed before handing it back to Dean who did the same.

“Now can we enter?” he asked again, flexing his fingers under the latex.

“Fire away.”

Stepping warily around the blood stains that indicated a pool by the door, Castiel looked around even more and noticed nothing new. He didn’t have the detective’s eye. Dean, somewhere behind him, was shuffling papers on the dining room table in the middle of the room. Figuring it was more interesting than staring at stains that made no sense, he walked over.

“Oh good,” he said looking away quickly when he saw what lay on the table, “crime scene photos.”

Dean looked up, eyes following Castiel. “We’re _standing_ on a blood stain and this bugs you? Wussie.”

Still adamantly looking anywhere but the glossy and far too HD photos behind him, Castiel nodded. He could hear the rustling of Dean’s wool overcoat that meant he shrugged in response, but Castiel didn’t care. There was really only one thing he cared about while those photos were out and throwing up was _not_ an option. “Why, in heaven’s name, are you looking at those?”

Dean’s eyes don’t move except from one photo to the other. “The stab wounds are giving me info, Cas, shut up.” There was a strain to his voice.

“Oh, I didn’t realize bleeding gashes spoke to you. Is that something they teach at the academy? Do you have to do it successfully to reach the rank of detective? Jesus, Dean.” He was rambling, pacing back and forth.

The sound of the envelope flipping closed swished through the room and there was the sound of footsteps on carpet then wood before Castiel felt two hands on his shoulders, turning him until he was looking Dean in the eyes.

“You have _got_ to calm down,” he said. His fingers twitched like he was trying hard not to shake Cas by the shoulders. “You’re being very distracting, Castiel.”

Blinking several times, Castiel gathered his thoughts. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“You’re good, just shut the fuck up.”

He returned to his photos, glancing at them one more time before turning back to Castiel. “I’m gonna talk at you and you’re gonna stay quiet because right now your voice is pissing me off, got it?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, verging on angry. Still, he let Dean continue.

“There are three victims, two types of stab wounds and obviously two weapons. We have one of the knives, a silver blade, currently in possession of our evidence department, incorrectly described by me as a ‘steak knife’. The other one is nowhere to be found. It has to be somewhere, probably here.

“On top of all this, Kate’s wound also looks like it’s from the front instead of from behind like the other two. We know, or at least we ‘know’ based on your intuition and my detective work, that Milligan is one of the killers. So, what if Milligan killed one person and had an accomplice for the other two?” He bounced his hands back and forth as he spoke, tossing evidence around, trying to make sense of it. He landed with both hands in front of him, staring up at Castiel, waiting for his opinion.

Leaning back on the counter, Castiel considered his words. “How do we know Milligan had the outlier kill, why wouldn’t he have killed the two?”

“Because it was his mom,” Dean said, pulling out Kate’s file. Flipping through it, eyes tracing every word, he walked over to Castiel. “If you ‘knew’ your mom had to die,” he shuddered at the thought, “would you want someone else to do it, or would you rather kill her?”

“I’d do it,” Castiel said without hesitation. Dean took in the words, not the tone, and moved on.

“See? Now we’ve got a scene. Milligan and family sit at the table,” he pointed to the wood dining table beside them, not even looking at it, his brain already onto the next point, “Perp X enters silently, unbeknownst to the two family members who sit facing away from the door, and kills them.” Dean pointed to the bloodstains on the floor, one next to the other. A pair of fallen, stained chairs sat next to them. “They go down. Kate,” he said, gesturing to one of the two seats that remained at the table, “stands in fear, Milligan follows, stabs her, and hides the weapon.” Dean’s hands flailed then, indicating he really had no idea where the knife was. “Then, he looks back, sees the damage and grabs the other knife to try to hide it, but he can’t in time because, hello, the guy just offed his mom. All of this happens just in time for yours truly to bust in and arrest a stunned Adam Milligan.”

Castiel looked up, uncaring that his impressed expression was clear on his face. “Detective, I do believe you’ve solved it.”

And Dean broke into a laugh then, any and all tension flooding from his posture. His hands went to his knees and he fell into another bout of laughter, sheer joy seeping from every part of him.

“Detective, I believe it was earlier today that you said, ‘murder isn’t funny’. Why are you laughing?”

Dean straightened and fixed Castiel with the most disbelieving look on the planet. “Because I’m here, working my case with _you_ of all people, and I just solved it. A case I’ve been losing it over for months and you’re here and it gets solved? That’s fucking funny, Cas,” he said, clapping a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder.

“Oh.”

Dean stared at Castiel, breaking eye contact to look back down at the blood on the carpet. “It’s not over though, we gotta find the weapon.” He snapped the latex of his glove against his wrist and turned to Castiel. “Ready to ransack the place?”

 

After clarifying that they were not, in fact, ransacking Adam Milligan’s apartment - despite the fact that the warrant granted Dean to do that to a certain extent - they started looking. Castiel inspected cabinets and drawers while Dean went the more archetypal route, checking under the mattress and flipping couch cushions. They both turned up empty, they both kept looking.

Ten minutes later, Castiel had his head deep inside a corner cabinet and Dean was shaking out blankets and sweatshirts. Still nothing.  
Another fifteen minutes and a broom landed on Dean when he’d dug around a dimly lit closet far too willy-nilly considering what he was searching for.  

Five more minutes and they’d emptied garbage bags, the dishwasher, the vanity mirror, and the laundry basket. No large, serrated knife had fallen from any of them.

Just starting to sweat, Castiel held up his hands in defeat. “I need a break, Detective.”

Dean waved an absent minded hand from where he patted down coats.

Unfortunately, getting water in a criminals apartment was neither an appealing nor a feasible option, so Castiel looked for some other place to get relief from the now cramping air around him. The window next to the dining table, open enough that he need not touch it, seemed like the perfect option. Castiel looked out at the park beyond the building they were in, breathing in the air coming from the window.

Somewhere beneath him, there was a faint flowery scent, enough to get him to look down at what looked like horseshoe geraniums. They were a deep red except for where they wilted at the end of the petals. Curious, Castiel reached down with a gloved hand to push away the stems and examine the soil below. He hoped for an answer as to why the flowers were dying, generally geraniums didn’t need so much water to survive.

One look at what was inside the green sill box told Castiel _exactly_ why the flowers were crippling. They were uprooted, only a few solitary stems still in the dirt.

It took Castiel only a moment to decide it was deliberate.

“Detective, how many technicians were on the scene in the first week?” he asked, not moving his eyes from the dirt.

Pausing his re-hanging a blue raincoat, Dean pondered for a moment. “A couple, two, three, why?”

“None of them thought to look in the sill box?”

Dean stepped toward him, caution lacing his voice. “No, why?”

“These flowers are uprooted, as if they were laid on the soil and,” Castiel reached his head farther out the window to the fire escape beneath, “dirt is everywhere.”

The back of Dean’s hand tapped on his shoulder, a clear signal to move. Taking his own turn to pry into the soil, Dean simply moved the uprooted flowers out of the way. Then, no holds barred, he stuck his hand in the box, digging until every inch of his body stilled.

Slowly, so very, _very_ slowly, Dean brought his hand back out. In his grip was a knife, one foot in length, with the largest teeth Castiel had ever seen. And it was covered in blood.

“What in the _fuck_ is a guy like Milligan doing with an _ice saw_?” Dean asked, incredulous.

Castiel had no answer for him, still connecting the weapon in front of him with the gruesome pictures he’d seen of Kate’s body. It matched to a tee, and the thought sent a shiver through his body.

“Get one of the bags from my coat pocket, Cas,” Dean said, still staring at the knife.

He moved as quickly as he could, fishing  the largest evidence bag from Dean’s coat and handing it to him.

Moving as slowly as he dared, Dean slid the knife into the bag, sealing it. “We should get this to the precinct.”

Castiel only nodded.

 

Dean left Castiel in the car while he ran the knife inside to forensics. On his way out, he ran into Captain Mills returning from her lunch break.

“How’s the case?” she asked, stopping him in the lobby.

“We found a second murder weapon, I think there’s a second perp to go with it,” he said, beaming with pride. A case that had seemed so simple had kicked his ass and here he was coming out on top, uncovering things that, by the looks of it, not even his captain had expected.   
“Impressive, Winchester.” A proud smile came across her face and Dean reveled in it before his conscious got the better of him.

“Cas found it.”

Captain Mills paused, thinking before she said, “Castiel Novak, uncovered damning evidence for his client?”

“I am blind to his gift-horse ways, Captain. I’m just grateful.”

She nodded, then something flashed across her face. Concern. “Dean,” she stepped forward, lowering her voice despite the fact that they were alone in the room, “how are you going to find the other perp?”

“Well, the second guy didn’t leave prints, killed almost expertly, he’s gotta have experience, so I contacted my CI to ask - oh.” Dean felt the concern he’d seen in his captain’s face, except it felt more like dread.

“You cannot take him.” She meant Castiel and he knew it.

Grasping at straws, Dean said, “He’ll find out anyway.”

Captain Mills just stared at him and Dean stared back with his best pleading eyes. Finally, she caved.

“If you insist, Detective, but if I hear about either of their bodies in Arrigo Park you’re wearing the jacket.”

“Understood.” And he bid her goodbye and returned to the car.

 

“What was that about, Detective,” Castiel asked when he returned to the car.

Dean brushed it off with a simple, “Nothing,” and started the car.

Driving back they way they, Dean parked in a different lot off Taylor. Castiel moved to get out of the car as soon as it shut off under him, but Dean reached over and pulled him back in.

“Hold your horses, cowboy.” Castiel just looked back with those confused eyes of his, understanding nothing. “We’re going to talk to my CI, she’s kind of a...firecracker and she’ll probably be off-put by you, so if she does try to leave, you go to the car, got it?” Castiel nodded.

Dean let go of where he’d been holding onto him, clambering out of the car himself. They crossed the street and wandered through the park, stopping at the Columbus monument.

“Fitting,” Castiel said, no hint of remorse in his tone.

“I think genocide is a lot worse than ‘possession with intent to sell’, but okay.”

Castiel still continued to stare up at the bronze statue, so he didn’t notice when a third figure joined their little group.

“Oh good, my pardon in a necktie is here!” she said, walking up to Dean. “Who’s your friend?”

Dean watched as Castiel turned around at the mention of him, and watched an array of emotions flash across his eyes. Anger, betrayal, confusion among them, but mostly shock. Shock always came through most clearly.

“Not that you haven’t already met, but Castiel, meet my criminal informant, Claire.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments make my week, btw! I'm sorry I never respond, but I see every one and they mean the world to me! Thank you so much.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get one step closer to solving this, but not without some obligatory drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my work is un-beta'd. it's 2 AM here. watch for errors.

At Castiel’s name, Claire’s jaw went slack. And then her whole demeanor shifted. Her arms went from her pockets to crossed firmly across her chest. Her mouth closed into a line and her eyes narrowed. Her face was unyielding in its anger.

“Hello, Castiel.”

Her eyes were that same color of cold blue Dean had seen staring him down many times before. The Novak genes were certainly strong.

Finally, Castiel spoke. “Claire, hello,” he said, quickly averting his attention to Dean. “Detective, may I speak with you in private?”

“Oh, yeah,” Claire said, still a ways away from them, “privacy in this big ass park, good luck finding that.”

Both men turned to her, Dean’s expression a little less dramatic than Castiel’s utter bewilderment. It was such a severe reaction, not even close to what Dean was expecting. Almost as if they were seeing different people. How long had it been since he’d seen Claire? Did he know Claire Novak better than her own family?

“Claire, be polite,” Castiel said, nearly spitting out the words.

She took a dangerous step forward, fixing Castiel with a look that could kill. “You think you have _any_ jurisdiction over me, _uncle_?” she asked, throwing the word in his face before stalking back to where she had stood.

Dean looked up from his phone, monitoring the risk of the situation unfolding before him.

“I am your _fami_ -”

At that Dean stepped between the two of them. He raised a hand to push back against Castiel and the other he held up behind him to stop Claire who’d whirled back around at the word “family”.

“Cas, she’s fine. Let’s go talk.” He turned to Claire. “Are you okay with that?”

The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smirk and she turned her attention to Castiel. Dean could feel a point about to be made. “Longer you take, less time I’m in prison. Go wild.” The way she raised her eyebrows was almost a challenge to her uncle. _What are you gonna do about it?_

Dean could feel the intake of breath where his hand was still pressed firmly to Castiel’s shoulder. He pressed harder.

“Cas, cool it.”

The tension never left, but he could hear and feel the slow exhale. “Let’s talk, Dean.” He reached up and grabbed the detective’s wrist where it was close to his body, pulling him along.

He didn’t stop until they were on the other side of the fountain, folding his arms over his chest. Dean couldn’t help but notice the similarity. Then Cas started pacing, rambling the whole time.

“What is this, Dean? Why didn’t you tell me my _niece_ was your CI? We were in the car for only God knows how long and I bet you knew even longer. Why didn’t you tell me?” He stalked closer to Dean with each word before turning back in a flurry of anger.

“Your fucking CI, Dean! Criminal. Informant. She’s a criminal.” Cas raked his hands through his hair, interlacing them behind his neck, tension turning them white at the knuckles. When he turned back Dean saw panic in his eyes. “How?” he asked, breaths turning shaky and unsure. “How is she a criminal? She’s just a little girl. She was just a little girl. How could I-” Cas froze. His spine straightened and he stared at Dean, eyes going dark with something so much more furious than anger.

“Detective Winchester, if this is some sort of sick, _sick_ prank, so help me god I will make it the soul purpose of my life to destroy yours.”

Confused, Dean looked from Castiel to where Claire stood. His eyes narrowed and widened as he tried to make sense of what Castiel was saying. Before he could ask, Castiel spoke again.  
“This is because your Captain is Claire’s primary caregiver now.” Dean opened his mouth to contradict but his words were barreled over. “This is some sort of retribution, humiliation, some sort of _something_ to make me feel guilty and I won’t have it.”

Instead of trying to speak, Dean took a cautious step towards him, hands outstretched.

“I _know_ she was my job. I _know_ I fucked up, but damn it, Dean, I tried! I couldn’t sacrifice myself and take her down with me. I couldn’t.” Castiel’s words began to be garbled by some lump in his throat and Dean took his chance to take his final step towards him.

“Cas, c’mon, it’s not like that,” he said, taking his arms. “She’s in real good hands with Jody, she just got into some stuff right out of the gate.” He snuck his hands up to his shoulders, squeezing hard. Anything to get him to calm down. “We all noticed the info she picked up in maybe two days in those circles so we let her stay.”

The gasp Castiel let out would have been comical if not for the distress behind it. “So, she’s undercover?”

Dean dropped his hands and looked down at his feet. “Not quite.”

“Explain this instant, Detective.” His voice was void of all the emotion from before, cold and controlled.

“She still deals.”

“Deals _what_?”

Dean held his hands up in preemptive defense. “Nothing too hard!”

Castiel simply repeated his words, leaving no room around the demand.

“Weed and some OTCs,” Dean finally admitted, his tone as shameful as if he were the one charged. When Castiel’s eyes went a little wider, Dean tried to backpedal. “She’s protected, we’re on her all the time. Me, Jody, Benny, everyone. And,” he said, stepping close to Castiel again, “we know that if she ever gets in real deep shit, there’s at least one public defender who, even if he is the worst, would work his _ass_ off to make sure she’s okay.”

Finally relaxing, Castiel nodded. “Okay, then.”

“Great, then let’s go get some information from her.”

 

Walking back around the fountain with a nervous Castiel Novak in tow, Dean started to facilitate.

“Claire, Cas, let’s be civil here, please? We all have the same goal, yeah?”

Claire scoffed as she walked towards them. “Putting away criminals has _never_ been his gig, Dean.”

“Well, he’s changed his tune.”

The got a skeptical look from Claire, but she remained. She was open to helping. Good.

“You heard about the Milligan trial?” Dean asked, slipping into his detective voice.

Claire nodded. “Triple homicide, the sad sack on the scene is the only suspect and,” she paused, assessing Castiel before speaking, “hell’s defense attorney over here is the only thing standing between him and jail. Yeah?”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Castiel look down in shame. Dean himself just nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Then, for the first time in their interaction, her eyes lit up. A real smile crossed her face as she looked up at Dean. “Sounds fun. What can I help with?”

From somewhere deep in his coat, Dean pulled out a stack of photos. Castiel averted his eyes.

“We’re looking for some men,” Dean said, offering the photos. “Before I give you anything else, does this knife look familiar?” he asked, switching to the image of the silver blade.

“There’s a group that uses those,” Claire said, almost instantly, then she paused. She looked up and off to her right, trying to remember something. “They all work pretty alone and they only gather to brag about it, so I don’t know your guy specifically.” She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and glanced between Dean and Castiel. “Got anything else for me?”

Fishing around in his jacket pocket once again, Dean pulled out a bag. Castiel realized quickly that it was the cellphone from the precinct. Milligan’s phone.

He unlocked the phone and did so quickly given that there was no password. It figured. After years of essentially working _for_ them, Castiel had learned that the majority of criminals were at least a little bit dumb.

The detective navigated to the text messages and to a thread. It was a conversation with an unmarked number that gave a detailed plan of the crime.

Some, as it turned out, were dumber than others.

“We’ve got this, but we don’t have the numbers of known killers for hire in our contacts list. Mind giving me a hand?” Dean asked, offering the phone to Claire.

Castiel found himself stunned once again, retaining only enough clarity to spit out, “Why do you have those?”

Claire simply shrugged. “Murderers like Adderall, I guess,” she said. There were a few moments of silence before Claire handed the phone back. “I can't tell you for sure, cause the number goes to a burner, but going off the dialogue alone, I think you’re looking for Zach Adler. He likes to hang out at the harbor and pretend like he’s a part of the yacht clubs. Which one you’ll find him at depends on the day.”

Dean nodded, concentration evident on his face as he committed the information to memory. “Okay. Thank you, Claire, you will be compensated in no jail time, housing and food.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The usual? Nothing more?”

“Not today, kid,” Dean said, slinging an arm around her.

“Well, how about this,” she looked at Castiel as she spoke to Dean, “when trench coat pulls the stick out of his ass, you give him my number, okay?”

Dean turned his attention to Castiel as well. “Sounds like a plan, Novak.”

After giving Claire a proper hug, Dean turned to his partner for the day. “Other Novak, let’s dip. Gotta go back to the precinct.”

Following he asked, “Why is that, Detective?”

“I’m gonna be chasing down murderers. I’ve got to change my shoes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late! life caught up to me, i guess ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ still, thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I didn't update for a month. Now it's summer. I'll be consistent. I promise.

In the car for yet another time, Castiel found himself thinking about everything that had just happened.

His niece - or first cousin once removed if he was being specific - was technically a criminal. Who helped the CPD on a regular basis. She helped them.  _ Him _ . 

The little girl had been out of his care for a long while and seeing her then gave Castiel the overwhelming revelation that she wasn’t really a little girl. She was a young woman who really,  _ really _ didn't need him. He didn’t know whether to be proud, frightened or something else entirely.

For that moment, however, Castiel settled on the goal before him. Dean pulled up to the precinct yet again. This time, Castiel followed.

Captain Mills greeted him with nothing short of surprise. “Huh. She didn’t kill you.”

“No,” Castiel said, pausing as Dean turned the corner to the locker rooms. “Though, I think she wanted to.”

Jody nodded as if it were the plainest thing in the world. “Ages sixteen to about nineteen were where she was most dead set on it. Thankfully, she finally had a guardian who didn’t condone murder.” Castiel noticed her eyebrows raise slightly in challenge. Maybe the captain had shown Claire a thing or two.

“Are you implying something Captain Mills?” Castiel asked.

A small victory smile crept across her face. “Not at all, Mr. Novak. Not at all.”

Slightly uncomfortable from the whole interaction, Cas walked over to the elevator that would take him to Dean’s bullpen. Maybe he could get some more information from whoever was up there. If they’d even speak to him, that is. So far, his track record wasn’t exactly the greatest, but, it didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

Stepping into the small elevator, Cas pressed the button for the third floor. When the door opened on the second and Officer Lafitte stepped in, Cas felt his spine straighten and his muscles stiffen involuntarily.

“Hey, Novak,” the uniformed man said, calm as ever. He didn’t seem to harbor any ill-will towards Castiel, but that didn’t mean he’d relax. Castiel had learned the hard way that policemen were often good actors.

Of course, policemen also had an eye for detail and Officer Lafitte was no exception. Castiel could feel the man’s eyes on him and his posture but whether it was judgement or simple observation, he couldn’t tell until the other man spoke.

“You know, not all of us hate you. It’s just Dean,” Benny said, not looking at Castiel.

As the doors pinged open before them, Castiel turned to Benny. “Him and your captain.”

At that, Benny had to laugh. “You aren’t wrong there, but can you blame her?”

Castiel just shook his head, stepping out of the elevator and into the bullpen, bustling with plainclothes and uniformed officers alike. He walked over to Dean’s desk, recognizable from the array of photos and the replica of the detective’s classic car sitting on top.

He didn’t realize Benny had followed him over until he cleared his throat. Pulling his eyes away from an objectively sweet-seeming photo of Dean and his brother, Castiel turned to him.

“If he does give you any trouble, let me know. I know how he gets,” the officer said, offering his hand. Castiel took it, finding minimal comfort in knowing that he had a half-ally in the building.

“Thank you, Benny, that’s very kind of you.”

Letting go of his hand, he said, “Sure thing, just don’t let Dean know I spoke to you without breakin’ your nose.” His words trailed off, another piece of the sentence coupled with a small smirk was overpowered by the din of the bullpen, but Castiel could tell it was directed at him.

Oh, well. Castiel returned his attention to Detective Winchester’s desk, flicking the wheels of the tiny car. When they spun under the movement, Castiel found himself picking up the toy. It took a short amount of time for him to learn that both the hood and the doors could be opened with a little concentration and nimble fingers. 

He was still looking at the plastic detailing inside the toy when the elevator pinged open on their floor again.

“Hey, that’s collector’s, be careful,” Dean said, his hand slipping into Castiel’s view to snatch the car from him. Cas had a hard time believing that the flimsy plastic under his fingers was a true collector’s item, but he relented nonetheless.

Of course, once his attention was no longer on the fake vehicle, it fell to Dean. Dean, who had apparently dressed up for the role of “boat owner” and “asshole” at the same time. 

The loafers he wore matched the brown leather belt that slid between the loops of his white jeans. Tucked into those was a green button up that, when Castiel leaned in to get a closer look, he noticed had soft white palm fronts patterned across it. 

“Doesn’t take seem a little excessive, detective?” Castiel asked, taking in the outfit for another moment.

And just as Dean opened his mouth to protest, Alex stepped between them with a folder in her hands. She seemed to have heard Castiel’s question and gave Dean a once-over of her own. 

“Seems pretty standard to me. He’s basically got a closet in his locker. And hey,” she said, glancing down at the wrinkles in Castiel’s coat, “at least he looks good.”

Cas didn’t know why, but he looked to Dean for support who, in turn, only offered a smug smirk and a wink that couldn’t possibly be taken seriously. So, he refocused on Alex.

“What did you want, Alex?” If he let a small amount of his bitterness slip into his tone, he would never admit to it.

The young woman in front of him just scoffed. “Nothing for you, hard ass. You shouldn’t even be here.” She turned to Dean, placing the envelope in his hands. “This is all that the Captain could find on Zach Adler. She says look at it before you go charging in there. His laundry list of offences includes everything from lacy underwear to contract killing.”

Castiel watched Dean’s eyes go wide at the words. If he remembered correctly, a contract killer seemed to fit the bill of what they were looking for. 

Gingerly as he could, Dean slipped the folder under his arm next to something Castiel hadn’t seen before. It was a lighter blue and there was some stitching across the places that he could see, though he couldn’t fathom what it was. 

Dean thanked Alex and gestured for Castiel to begin towards the elevator. He’d taken four steps before his coats were being yanked off his arms. 

Stumbling back, he turned to see Detective Winchester with both garments in his right hand and a third in his left. It was a shirt. The cloth under Dean’s arm was a shirt, a blue shirt embroidered with bamboo shoots, and Dean expected him to wear it. 

 

“This is imbecilic, Detective,” Castiel said as he slipped the shirt over his arms. He swung them back and forth a few times, testing the fit. Somehow, it was perfect. 

Outside the stall, Dean’s toe-tapping stopped. “You want to fit in don’t ya?”

“I doubt a jacket and tie would make us ‘out of place’,” he said, finger quotes essentially useless from inside the blue painted walls. “Why can’t I just wear that?”   
There was a heavy sigh before Dean spoke again, just as Castiel started on the buttons. “If we’re doing shady shit, it’s better if we look like the rest of the preppies that are down there than like cops or, worse yet, lawyers.”

Castiel held back his choice words to Dean in favor of buttoning and unbuttoning the top button of the shirt several times. As he did so, he couldn’t help but think about Benny and Alex’s words.  _ Don’t let Dean know I spoke to you without breakin’ your nose. You shouldn’t even be here.  _

“Dean?” he asked, settling finally on unbuttoned. He tried not to let the concern from his thoughts slip into his words, but the squeaked and careful way they came out let him know he failed.

There was some shuffling outside the stall. “Yeah? What? Does it not fit?” Dean’s tone was unreadable. Cas couldn’t tell if he was tired, angry or concerned. Still, he continued with his question.

“Everyone insists I don’t belong here. What do you think?” Dean was the one who had brought him here, dragged him along. Dean would be the one to put his mind at ease. Right?

He was met with silence. Then, the shuffling of Dean’s loafers on the tile floor and what sounded like hands being shoved firmly into pockets. None of it eased Castiel’s fears.

“Dean?” His voice sounded almost weak and he resented himself for it. Dean Winchester was a man full of arrogance and suave and nothing else, why did Castiel care for his opinion? He didn’t know.

There was another beat of silence and an intake of breath like Dean was going to say something. He never did. 

Getting a small amount sick of it, Castiel tucked the shirt into his pants and redid his belt, finally opening the door. He found Dean staring at him, eyes wide and fearful, and he knew the words he was holding back almost instantly.

Castiel crossed his arms in front of his chest, the sleeves of Dean’s stupid, stupid shirt coming up over his elbows as he did so. His face was a challenge, but the thoughts inside of his head roiled. This was what he did best, staying calm under the pressure of emotion, refusing to break no matter how angry the stupid, stupid detective on the other side of the stand was making him.

When Dean didn’t speak, he dropped his arms and began to walk away, Dean’s feeble attempts to keep him back failing.

“Cas, wait.”

He stopped at the door and turned back. “You asked me here, Dean. You dragged me into this, and for a second, I was enjoying myself. As it turns out, my early assumptions were correct. It seems I can’t enjoy anything with you around, can I?”

He didn’t let Dean speak, didn’t let the Detective find a way out, just opened the door and let it slam behind him as he walked towards the elevator. 

He was giving up on Dean Winchester, yes, but not on the case, whether he “belonged there” or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! What is up? Do we like it? Are you glad I'm posting two chapters at once? Let me know!


	10. Chapter 10

Dean stared at the door where Cas had left, watching it bounce against the old frame before someone caught it and stepped through, though Dean couldn’t find it in himself to care much who was in the bathroom. 

When Benny stepped into his line of sight, hand waving, Dean finally broke his long staring contest.

“Hey,” he said, as if nothing was wrong. Benny, being Benny, saw right through it.

“What the hell is going on, Dean?” he asked, stepping closer to where Dean was leaning up against the sink. “First, Cas runs out of the room fuming like the kettle’s about to boil and you're here sulking. That, and you’re both dressed like douchebags.”

Dean looked up at his friend. “I blew it.”

“How so?”

With yet another sigh, Dean turned away and toward the sink behind him, letting the cool water pool in his palms before scrubbing a wet hand across his face. He looked from his reflection to Benny’s behind it, reluctant to speak.

“I may have implied he doesn’t belong here.”

Benny moved into the space between the sinks, looking at Dean with a hard stare that could only mean he wasn’t buying Dean’s bullshit. “No matter how much you want him to, he doesn’t, not really.”

Letting his head fall into his hands and his elbows rest on the sink, Dean let out a loud groan that echoed off the walls of the bathroom. “Benny, I brought him into this and I just kicked the guy to the curb.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Still staring at the drain of the sink, Dean admitted to himself, and the nearly empty bathroom, what he knew. “If he goes off by himself all 'righteous fury', he'll get himself in trouble or he'll get himself hurt. I can't have that on my conscience, Benny."

There was a rough hand on his back. Dean looked up to meet Benny’s eyes in the mirror. 

“I hate to tell you, brother,” the officer said with a heavy breath, “but you might have to bench your lawyer.”

Dean nodded once, running his still damp fingers through his hair once more before moving towards the door. “God, I hope he hasn’t left yet.” 

 

When Dean stepped off the elevator, Cas was there, pacing like a madman in front of the large glass doors of the building.

“Thank god,” Dean found himself saying, moving at a jog towards Cas.

Before he could get close enough to get any words out, Cas spotted him, anger clear on his face. The lawyer turned and walked out the door, light wind biting at his exposed arms. His jacket and coat were still upstairs.

Dean, equally without layers, followed Cas outside, trying to catch up as he walked north towards Racine. It didn’t take long after he rounded the corner for Dean to realize that Castiel was heading for the bus stop. Just a second longer and he realized that  _ he _ was the reason Castiel had forgone even grabbing his coat. 

He followed him until Cas stopped under the black metal awning at the bus stop. The 60 wasn’t bound to show up for another fifteen minutes. Dean had time.

“Cas, I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be, Detective. You were right.” His voice was cold and hard as he just stared at the matching bus stop on the opposite side of the street, refusing to look at Dean. “What do I know, having studied law for  _ years _ , having  _ known  _ criminals, having devoted my  _ life  _ to it? What value could I possibly have?”

Half of Dean wanted to respond to Castiel’s bitterness with some of his own and the rest wanted nothing more than to assure him he was valuable, both to Dean and to the case, but he couldn’t, not really. Not honestly.

“Castiel, look,” he said, sitting down on the bench beside him, “you  _ are _ helpful. Plain and simple. They just don’t like you because you make our jobs a fair amount harder, that’s it. You  _ do _ belong.” Dean felt his stomach turn when the tension in Castiel’s jaw seemed to fade at the words and he finally looked over to Dean. 

“Thank you, Detective.”

Dean offered a soft smile in return, not daring to open his mouth. If he said anything, he ran the risk of just telling Castiel. He couldn’t do that.

He moved to stand up from the bench, but before he could get far, he felt Cas grab his wrist. 

When he turned, the lawyer had a less than pleased expression on his face. “Detective,” he started, and Dean felt dread creep back into his system.

Stepping so he was only inches away from Castiel, he scanned his face, his expression and body language, just checking to make sure he hadn’t said something wrong. Did Castiel know he was lying? Did he know his plan?

“Are you going to make me wear this shirt the whole time?”

The small smile curling at the corners of Castiel’s mouth sent Dean’s stomach roiling and threatening to overturn his lunch, but he put on a smile of his own and slung an arm around Castiel’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry, buddy, it looks good on you.”

 

They walked in companionable silence back to the district building, going upstairs to collect their coats. When they reentered the elevator, Castiel turned to Dean.

“Detective, I really do mean it. Thank you for your support.”

Dean couldn’t even look at him. “Sure, Castiel.”

By the time he actually chanced a glance at his companion with wary eyes, he was stepping off the elevator with a pleased smile spread across his face. Dean stepped off too, dazed by Castiel’s sincerity and by the options bouncing around his head. Looking up, he found that Castiel was yards away from him, staring expectantly.

Not wanting to yell across the lobby, Dean brought his hands up in front of him.  _ Wrong door.  _

Castiel glanced from the door behind him and Dean. The main door...wasn’t the right door.  _ What? _

_ We are not taking my car,  _ Dean signed. He slowly began inching towards the back door to the parking lot. Thankfully, Castiel followed.

“Why aren’t we taking your car?” he asked, jogging so he could catch up.

Dean turned to Cas, backing against the door until it opened. Fishing the keys out of his pocket as Castiel passed him, he said, “Baby is a little too recognizable, and we are trying to be the opposite.” He clicked the button on the fob and walked to the vehicle whose lights flashed.

Castiel, ever on the side of the enemy, it seemed, paused next to the black car, examining it. “Doesn’t every criminal in Chicago know what a CPD detective’s car looks like?”

“Touché.” Along with his words, Dean offered and impressed eyebrow raise as he slid into the driver’s seat. He started her up, listening to the engine turn over as Cas climbed in himself. The sound of the old, only adequately kept vehicle was nothing compared to the purr of the Impala, but she’d do. 

He chanced another look at Castiel who was staring out the window of the car. Dean felt something sickening slosh around in his gut at how blissfully unaware the lawyer was. Taking a deep breath, he put the vehicle in reverse and pulled out of the lot. It would be for the best. It would.

 

Shockingly, Castiel pulled none of the tricks he’d tried the first time Dean had offered him a ride. The radio remained firmly on 100.7 and the volume at a solid fifteen the entire ride. Castiel just sat there, staring out the window with that same heartbreakingly soft smile on his face.

After a 25 minute drive full of nothing but music, traffic, and Dean’s own thoughts, he pulled off Lakeshore and into the lot under the road. Before Castiel could get out of the car himself, Dean pocketed the keys walked over to his side and watched as Castiel, curious, opened the door.

“What’s going on, Detective?” he asked, one leg bouncing on the sidewalk in anticipation.

Dean cleared his throat, going over the words in his head once before speaking, “I’m gonna go check some things out, do a scope before I let you ‘on scene’. Sound good?”

Castiel craned his neck around where Dean stood, examining the scene for himself. “Okay, I understand. Should I get back in the car now, then?”

It was almost too easy. Instead of feeling the glee he would have not even twelve hours ago, Dean dreaded what he was about to do.

“Yeah, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Cas pulled his legs back into the car only to have Dean shut it a little forcefully after him. When he looked back out, Dean had his fist held to his chest.  _ Sorry. _

Confused, Castiel moved to sign back “what” when a clicking sound made it very clear what was happening. Dean was locking him in the car, that was the first realization. The second was that Dean had lied to him. A swirl of emotions fought for control, but the only one he could put into action was climbing out of the car and making Detective Winchester’s life utter hell.

He’d just put his hand on the wheel when he caught Winchester in his peripherals. 

_ Stop. Don’t. _

Left hand still on the door, he brought his right up to his head.  _ Why? _

Dean made three signs.  _ Under. Cover. Alarm.  _ Dean didn’t want him to open the door because he’d locked it from the outside and the alarm would go off and “alert people to their presence.''

_ Why the fuck do I care?  _ Castiel found himself signing back, hand slipping off the door handle to utilize both hands.

_ Just... _ Dean’s finger twisting in the air flattened against his chest, moving in slow, pleading circles as Dean tried to make eye contact with Castiel.  _ Please. This case is important to me. _

Castiel didn’t bring his hands up to the window, slumping back in his seat and staring at the rows of cars in front of him.  _ Me too. _

He heard another click and the beeping reminder that the car was already locked. When he turned around, all he could see was the back of the detective’s pale green shirt, walking down the trail and away from the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was...weird...but I needed it for character motivation. 
> 
> Please, *please*, tell me what you think so far, it'd mean a lot ♡♡


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (someone may or may not be right about some things they predicted)

Five minutes into storming off, Castiel realized he didn’t particularly have a _plan_ and he was nearing the Chicago Yacht Club. He paused for just a moment before he stepped into the parking lot. Dean Winchester had lied to him, put him in an uncomfortable situation, and made him feel lonelier than he had in a long, long time. Payback was going to be a bitch, he decided, as a skeleton of a plan formed itself in his mind.

Squaring his shoulders and schooling his expression, Castiel walked up to the doors of the restaurant, finally catching sight of Dean’s awful button up again. He was standing in line to speak to the hostess. As he stood there, Castiel could see that he was tapping his foot and, from the way both his hands were hidden by his torso, Castiel could assume they were being wrung between one another. The clincher was when Dean cast a glance behind him. He didn’t see Castiel, but it was obvious that’s who he was looking for. Perfect.

When Dean looked behind him again, Castiel made sure that he was close enough to see and when the two of them made eye contact, the guilt in Dean’s eyes should have been enough. It should have, and instead, Castiel opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to mind.

“Oh, thank goodness, sweetheart, I thought I lost you there for a second.”

Castiel knew instantly that the confusion on Dean’s face was a result of his words and the emotion was only amplified when Castiel stepped up to him and took his hand.

“Cas, what in god’s-”

The chipper voice of the hostess kept him from finishing. “Welcome to the Chicago Yacht Club, table for two?”

Squeezing Dean’s hand with a force that indicated a warning, Castiel plastered a smile on his face. “Yes, please.” 

With a small nod and a, “right this way”, the hostess stepped from behind her podium and led Dean and Castiel through the bright restaurant and its sea of patrons. Each table had a plain tablecloth on it and a centerpiece in the middle; the silverware was shiny and polished, and the napkins were folded along sharp, ironed creases. Looking out at the people seated in their nice jackets and enjoying their food, Castiel was grateful for the shirt he wore.

They were led to a small, two person table near the centre of the room and handed two thick menus before they were left alone again. It didn’t take long after that for Dean to start asking questions.

“Castiel Novak, what the fuck is happening?” he demanded, voice low and urgent as he leaned across the table. “You can’t come in here and take my hand like that without explanation.” His voice held emotions Castiel couldn’t determine, or, he could, but he just didn’t understand. For some reason, Dean seemed more _upset_ than angry

Sparing a side eye at Dean, Castiel opened his menu. He was going to stick to his plan: embarrass Dean as Dean had embarrassed Castiel. He had been perusing the different cuts of fish the restaurant was offering for several minutes when there was a sharp kick to his shin.

“Cas.”

With a sigh that conveyed more effort than he was actually expending, Castiel closed his menu. He kept his face controlled and calm, not daring to give anything up to Dean, but on the inside he was quite pleased with himself. Even this minimal confusion and wild desire to have the issue resolved was a win in his book. Now, it was time to see how long he could force the detective to keep it up.

“I am making sure that you know how I felt.” He heard Dean scoff. “You left me alone in a locked car, I will keep you in the dark about my personal plans for this meal as long as I see fit. End of discussion.” With that he returned to the menu, moving on to the salads.

From the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Dean, the quick-witted detective, gape like a fish as he tried to find a word or three to string together. Before he could collect the proper parts of a sentence, however, their waitress showed up.

“Hello, I’m Becky and I’ll be your server today. Is there anything I can get started for you?” she asked, voice far too chipper for anyone with her job.

Dean gestured for her to begin with Castiel and when she turned, her jaw nearly dropped. Her eyes flicked to Dean and back to Castiel and something that sounded like a squeal came from somewhere deep in her throat. The hand she brought to her mouth did a damn poor job of concealing the fact that what she was doing was directed at them and when the squealing finally became a shrill giggle, Dean spoke.

“Hey, Becky, is it? What’s so damn funny?” The way his voice came out clipped and angry caught Castiel by surprise. She was just laughing, Castiel couldn’t help but think as he regarded Dean with widened eyes. 

“Dean, calm down, I’m certain she was just-” Cas started, only to be cut off by the _harsh_ glare Dean directed at him.

“Don’t, Castiel.”

Castiel was prevented from questioning Dean’s attitude further when Becky’s laughter became more of a soft wheezing. “I’m sorry, I really am, but you guys are wearing matching shirts, and it’s _adorable_.” 

Looking over at Dean, Castiel caught sight of his expression: nothing short of _mortified_ and _guilty_. He glanced back at the waitress and the way she held her hands clasped and close to her cheeks like they were a couple of puppies. Again, perfect.

Castiel quickly reached across the table, acting without really thinking, and took Dean’s hand. Holding it on the table between them he said, “I’m glad you noticed, my boyfriend bought them for us.”

Another one of Becky’s loud squeals silenced any argument Dean may have had. “That. Is. So. _Precious._ ”

Okay, maybe not so perfect, Castiel realized. Becky’s words were making even him uncomfortable, what with the way she looked at them like tiger cubs in a fucking zoo. It was creepy, and he minorly regretting putting them in this situation, but Dean could never know that. Instead of showing it, he turned to Dean, smile on his face. What he saw, though, wiped it quickly off. Dean was already looking at him, scanning his face. It was a detective's move, but the expression paired with it was nowhere close to the schooled features of a trained officer. He was jealous, Castiel realized. Of what he didn't know, but Dean's expression had folded from hard and angry to almost dejected and deprived. Dean wanted something he did not have.

“What drinks are the cute couple going to be having tonight?” she asked, pulling Castiel out of his thoughts.

Dean spoke up first, “Double Maker’s, neat.”

A drink sounded good. “I’ll have the same,” Castiel said, unprepared for the drawn out “aww” that followed his words.

“Even your drinks match. Cute! I’ll have those right out.” And she was gone.

The table was silent for a few moments before Dean looked up with a pained expression on his face. “Cas, can we please stop this?”

“Why? Are you uncomfortable?” he asked, barely regarding the man across from him.

The hand that had been held in Castiel’s clenched once around nothing before Dean brought it under the table. Castiel could hear knuckles cracking as Dean said, “Yes, I don’t like this.”  
He couldn’t help but scoff again. “Oh, I’m sorry. You should have thought of that before locking me in a car.” 

Dean’s gaze finally dropped. “It’s a different kind of discomfort, Cas,” he said, voice smaller than he’d ever heard it.

“What, like being told you belong only to have it thrown back in your face?” Castiel spat, a small amount of anger remaining in his system.

Dean closed his eyes, taking a deep, slow breath. His eyes met Castiel’s and they seemed sad, like the words he was about to say weren’t what he wanted to say. Yet, there was a determination there, too, as if he didn’t want to speak, but he felt he needed to. “Cas, it’s sick that you’re doing this. That you’re _making me_ do this. I did what I did out of need. I didn’t dig into your emotions, wants, and desires. Hell, I don’t even know how you found out, but to twist something I want like this for _revenge_? It makes me sick.”

“Need?” Castiel asked, latching onto the word and forgetting what followed, too blinded by his anger at that simple specification. “You didn’t _need_ to do that. I showed you time and again how much I cared about you _and_ this case, Detective. You could have _asked._ There was no need, and if you think there was, I can’t do this anymore.” His words had a finality and Castiel knew it. So, he stood and walked away from the table, not looking behind or around him. 

He was six or so steps away when he collided with another body, taking them both to the ground and a tablecloth with them, spilling water on the both of them. Castiel scrambled to his knees, already picking up ice and apologizing over and over again, but when he looked up at Dean, he stopped.

The detective had gotten to his feet presumably when Castiel had fallen, but now he just stood there, frozen, gaze locked on the man Castiel had knocked down. Following Dean’s gaze, he looked over to the man to apologize only to find himself frozen as well.

He’d only gotten a glimpse of the man in the file Dean was given, but he knew who he was. He was a killer, a creep, and the whole reason Dean and Castiel were in this stupid restaurant in the first place. Of all people he could’ve literally run into, Castiel had spilled a table’s worth of water on Zachariah Adler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if something doesn't make sense let me know, i'm happy to answer any and all confusions!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I am so sorry this took so long (more than a month!), I just got swamped with stuff and until literally today this chapter fought me tooth and nail. It didn't want to be written and I didn't want to write something I wasn't happy with. 
> 
> So, that is my apology for this chapter that, trust me, I have been waiting for as well. I hope you like it! Thank you for sticking with me ♡

Dean was the first to move but not towards the criminal before him. Instead, he knelt next to Castiel, a soft hand resting on his elbow.

He leaned close to his companion, whispering because the whole situation felt like a time bomb that would blow their whole operation to bits if his vocal chords moved even the slightest bit. “Are you alright?”

The words seemed to snap Castiel out of his shock. “Yes, Detective, I’m fine.” His voice was calm and unwavering, but, surprising as it may have been to Dean, it seemed almost  _ too _ robotic. Fake. It was when he finally made eye contact that the reason became clear. Cas was scared.

Gears turned in the back of Dean’s mind, as to why Castiel Novak, who sat and sassed criminals as part of his day job would be scared, but before he could make sense of the man in front of him, Zachariah stood. Now, his voice was no longer crippled by fury but fueled by it.

“How. Dare you?” His voice shook with an anger that reverberated all the way to the finger he pointed at Castiel.

Realizing he was being spoken to, Cas snapped out of his fear-stricken silence. “Sir, I am so sorry,” he said, rising to his feet. The palms of his hands were held out to Zachariah, fending off a blow that hadn’t come yet. “It was a complete accident and I-“ He was cut off before he could finish his apology.

“Do I look like I care about some accident?” Alder demanded, voice rising with anger. “I’ve been a customer at this establishment for years and the first time a couple of fags walk in here is the one time-“ And there was the blow Dean was waiting for. He watched as Cas rose to his full height, a good couple inches above Adler’s head and dropped his hands to his sides. Dean couldn’t see from where he stood, but he could feel the fury in Castiel’s eyes. The one he reserved for imbeciles and Dean Winchester.

“No, you don’t get to-“ but Dean was there, stepping between the two of them, deciding dealing with Castiel later would be better than playing crowd control to a full brawl now.

Putting his own hands up, Dean said, “You’re right, Mr. Adler, I am so sorry.” 

From behind him, he could hear Castiel try to protest but he just raised his voice. “This whole thing is our fault and I hope I can do something to clear it up. Mostly, though, I’d love to pay for your meal,” Dean said, landing a hand on Zachariah’s shoulder, tension evident in his fingers.

As he guided Adler to the bathroom, he suggested, “How about you go and clean your pants and, while my partner waits in the car, my debit card and I can get this all squared away? Sound good?” 

Zachariah did no more than grunt his assent and step into the bathroom.

“I’m not waiting in the car,” Cas said from behind him, causing Dean’s already shot nerves to jump. But, when he turned, he could see the anger slowly but steadily draining from Cas’ features.

“Cas, you-“ But the other man raised a single, challenging eyebrow and Dean relented. “Okay. Fine. But just stay out here and keep watch, okay? Don’t come into the bathroom. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Cas glanced from the bathroom door and back to Dean, another argument obviously simmering underneath the silence, but in the end he just looked at Dean and nodded. “Alright.”

Instantly, Dean felt all the tension from his shoulders seep out. Good. One less problem to deal with. 

Relief fueling his actions, and his brain too fried from dealing with Zachariah, Dean acted without thinking, leaning forward a pressing a light kiss to Cas’ cheekbone. It was only when he pulled away and saw Castiel’s stunned expression that his brain caught up. Fuck.  


“Uh,” was all he could manage for a moment. Seconds after that moment, he remembered the potential murderer six feet from him. Prioritize now, come back to this later, he decided. Maybe never. “Yeah. Just-uh-just stay here. Bye,” he fumbled before ducking into the bathroom and leaving Castiel alone, confused, and staring at the men’s room door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i will try to get back to a normal schedule...soon? but in the meanwhile tell me how you like this one! ♡


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel stood, confused as all hell, facing the bathroom door. What the hell was that? Detective Winchester had just kissed him.  _ Dean  _ had just kissed him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that there were bigger problems just on the other side of the door, but he couldn’t focus on them for more than a second because goddamnit Dean Winchester kissed him and he was trying really hard not to be pleased about it.

It couldn’t be because he wanted to, of course not. Not with the way he had almost bent over backward trying to get out of Castiel’s little prank. 

Oh. 

Right. 

The prank. They were presenting as a couple, that had to be why. Dean was a detective, his  _ job  _ was keeping his cover. No feelings. None.

Wiping his hand across his cheek and then on his pants, Castiel turned away from the door. 

A waitress with brown hair and purpose in her step passed him and gave him a small smile before passing him. Seconds later, she returned.

“Uh, sir?” she asked, standing before Castiel, a billfold her in hands.

Was he going to be asked to leave? He was the cause of this ruckus after all. Cautiously, he said, “Yes? What can I do for you,” he glanced down at her nametag, “Sarah?”

She stuck the billfold at him, no question to it, but a slight apology in her eyes. “Here’s the bill for Mr. Adler’s meal. Your boyfriend said the two of you would take care of it?”

Castiel tried to protest. “We’re not-” but then he looked at Sarah and along with the pity he automatically despised he saw that she was tired. Too tired to be dealing with a man fussing over small details or refusing bills they’d promised to pay. Sighing, he took it from her. “Yes, he did. Thank you.” 

“Sure thing,” she said, her own serving of relief in her voice.

Looking down at the black leather in his hand, Castiel allowed himself to slump onto the wall. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” he muttered to himself as he opened it. The total almost had him sinking to the floor. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars. For lunch.

Castiel looked at the full expanse of the bill. Three twenty dollar appetizers. Two thirty dollar entrees. Two fifteen dollar desserts. And so much alcohol. No wonder Zachariah had been a little loose-lipped with his slurs.

“Uhm, Sarah?” he said as the waitress passed him again.

“Yes?” she asked, the same fear returning to her eyes.

Castiel directed her eyes to the total and watched them widen. Looking back at her he said, “This seems like a bill far too large for one man, no offense to him.” He rubbed his fingers nervously over the fine leather in his hand.

“Oh! It is! Mr. Adler wasn’t dining alone, he never does.”

Castiel took pause at that, the movement of his hand stilling. He couldn’t remember a man across from Zachariah at the table, but perhaps he had missed something. “He doesn’t?” 

Sarah shook her head and quickly launched into an explanation. “No. At least three times a week he and a man named Michael Shurley come and eat lunch here.” She stepped closer to Castiel. Her eyes held something almost conspiratorial. “I think they’re business meetings, but some of the things they talk about are rather odd.”

Even without the details, Castiel had a feeling Michael should be added to Dean’s suspect list. 

“What does Michael look like?” he asked, hoping the waitress could give him a description.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, a realization distracted her. “Wait one moment,” Sarah said before running off to the front of the restaurant. 

When she returned, there was a small frame in her hands that she handed to Castiel. “Here. That’s him.” She pointed to a young, dark-haired man pictured next to Zachariah. Both men had tight-lipped smiles as they held a sign that said “CYC Member Brunch 2017”. So the two men were obviously close, but in what circles?

Pulling out his phone, Castiel took a quick photo before handing the frame back to the waitress. “Thank you, Sarah.”

“Of course, sir.” She gave him a small nod and returned to the front of the restaurant.

Once she was gone, Castiel opened his message thread with Dean, clicking on the number the detective had sent him last. Raising the phone to his ear, Castiel looked back at the bathroom door and hoped that Dean wouldn’t mind a small interruption.

____________________

 

The bathroom was fitting for the elegant dining room of the yacht club, all polished tiles and mints on the bar, but as Dean took a moment to appreciate it, Zachariah just blew through and into a stall, huffing angrily as he did so.

Deciding it was as good a time as any, while there was at least a small barrier between them, Dean started asking questions. “So, Zach. What business are you in?” he started, leaning against one of the shining sinks, as casually as he could. 

“Marketing,” came the short reply. Silence swept the small room, the sound of echoing breathing the only thing hitting Dean’s eardrums.

The detective laid his hands on the sink behind him, letting the porcelain cool his stress-warmed hands. He needed to get it together. He’d done this a thousand times with a thousand different criminals with a thousand different crimes. He could do it again. 

Slowly, but quickly enough so as not to raise the suspicions of the man in the stall, Dean walked over to the door and flicked the lock. He paced back and forth several times to cover the movement before he dared to ask another question.

“What kind of marketing?”

There was a deep sigh from the stall. “Iron.”

That got Dean’s interest. Pictures from Milligan’s file flashed in his mind. Building maps and shift times. Maybe this was more than just a killer for hire kind of deal. Maybe the two of them had connections.

“Like Sandover Bridge and Iron kind of iron?” he ventured, crossing his fingers until they turned white around each other. 

Zachariah was silent for a moment and Dean found himself praying. Not to God, not to some higher power, but to his own damn intuition that he hadn’t fucked it all up. If Zach said yes, he’d have something to go off and he wouldn’t have endangered himself and Castiel only for it all to fall to pieces. 

Oh, god, Cas. 

Cas who had dragged his emotions through the mud and who he’d just gone and fucking kissed. If this fell through, Cas would be gone. He’d have no more reason to see him and no chance to explain himself or apologize because, as loath as he was to admit it, he had been a douche. 

This had to go right.

As a perfectly timed segue, Zachariah exited the stall, looked Dean in the eyes and asked, “What the fuck do you care?”

Okay. Too many questions. 

“I try to be friendly, Mr. Adler,” Dean said, unconsciously raising his hands.

“Stop trying,” Adler snapped as he moved over to run his hands under the water.

Dean, for a split second, thought about giving up. He could surrender now, do some research and come back with a motive and backup. Or he could get the information straight from the horse's slimy, single-syllabic mouth. And afterwards, maybe he could talk to Castiel, and pray that they could get through the rest of this case like grown men.

Yeah, the latter seemed like the far better option.

Dean walked right up to the sink Zachariah was using, crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Okay, then I’ll cut right to the meat of it. You know that kid that got popped for the triple homicide? Tribune says he worked at the coffee shop below the Sandover building.”

There it was. All of Zachariah’s movements froze. Minutely and momentarily, but they did, and Dean caught it. The murderer in front of him hadn’t expected a questioning in the building where he reigned tyrant, and Dean was going to chip at that crack until the evidence he needed spilled out before him.

“Did you know him?” he asked again.

Zach turned to him, ice in his eyes. “I’ll say it again so maybe I’ll get through to you: What. The fuck. Do I care?”

He’d gone too far. Again.

Backtracking one more time, Dean said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry, just thought you’d know something.”

“I don’t.”

Dean paused, taking a deep breath. He was getting ahead of himself. Ansty, jumpy, impulsive. The opposite of what he needed to be right now. Obviously, Zachariah wasn’t responding to his straight questions but he responded, albeit not intentionally, when Dean mentioned the case. Maybe that was his “in”.

Dean moved past Zachariah and towards the door. This was going to be risky and he needed to put as much space between Zachariah, Cas, and the rest of the restaurant as possible. He also needed to calm the fuck down. 

Taking another slow breath, Dean leaned up against the wall next to the towels. He picked one up and pinched the material between his fingers in an attempt to calm himself down.

“Anyways,” he began, shrugging a shoulder, “I heard the cops are circling the guy they think helped him.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

He was right to ask. It was a small detail to be sure, but Zachariah was probably scouring news sources and stripping grape vines to make sure he wasn’t caught. He’d probably memorized every tidbit and piece of information that had been released to the public. And this hadn’t been. 

No one outside of the precinct knew about Dean’s suspicion of a third party, and it only added to the risk. One more deep breath, and Dean continued. 

“I do my remote work at the place where he worked and I guess badges are a little loose-lipped when they get caffeine in them. That and they don’t know how to whisper,” he added, hoping the joke would lighten the tense air sinking into his skin. 

It didn’t, but Zachariah did look up, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Dean could only imagine the thoughts going through the other man’s head. 

Snapping his attention back to his hands, all Zachariah offered vocally was a small, “Huh,” but his actions had given Dean plenty.

“Interested now?” he asked, setting down the towel and turning square to Zachariah.

The man narrowed his eyes. “No. I just-”

“Dean!” 

Zachariah fell silent as the door banged against the wall, staring with a fury that was unmatched at Castiel.

Dean, on the other hand, had frozen, paralyzed by fear. The only thing he could do was look between Castiel and Zachariah and will his body to do something, goddamnit!

Eventually, Cas repeated himself, stepping forward and taking Dean by his arms. “Dean! Listen to me!”

Dean sent one hard look back at Zach and put himself between the two men before settling his own hands firmly on Castiel’s shoulders. He put the same tension in his fingers that had been there with Zachariah, heavy and pinching with the implication that he needed to  _ move _ . Now. 

“Cas!” Dean said, stepping them both to the door. “I’m kinda fucking busy!” A nervous laughter accented his words and he knew he must look crazy, all wide-eyed and insistent, but Castiel could not be here. Zachariah already hated him and, now that Dean had brought up the case, he’d probably recognize the main defense attorney on that exact case.

Dean tried to push him out one more time, but Castiel brought his arms up between them and shoved Dean’s hands out of the way.

“Shut up for a minute, Dean!“ he snapped. He pointed to Zachariah. “He was here with someone else. A guy named Michael Shurley. I texted Claire and she said they run in the same circle. He just left.” 

Dean barely had time to react before there was shouting behind him.

“You are fucking cops!”   
For the second time in two minutes, Dean heard Cas shout his name. He looked behind him with just enough time to see Zachariah furious and charging at him, arms outstretched and most likely aimed for Dean’s neck.

Turning perpendicular to him, Dean went back to basics and landed a sharp elbow to the left side of Zachariah’s skull. He dropped to a knee as the man collapsed under the blow, breaking his fall so he didn’t crack his skull on the shining tiles. Dean really wasn’t in the mood to cover the guy’s lunch tab  _ and  _ foot the cleaning bill. Plus, they needed him for the case.

Setting Zachariah down on the ground, he let Cas’ words sink in. There had been another perp with Zachariah. And he just bolted, and Dean needed to catch him. Shit.

Dean walked over to the small table and grabbed another towel, wringing it between his hands until his knuckles were as white as the soft fabric. He was going to have to get it together and he was going to have to do it now.

He turned to Cas. 

The lawyer didn’t look like he was faring much better than Dean himself. His eyes were wide and stressed, his face was flush with embarrassment, and his hands shook where they were held together in front of him. It was that same fear from before and Dean finally realized what it was. It was a fear of action.

Cas spent his days in guarded rooms, across tables, and watched by a thousand cameras at a time. This was open. Vulnerable. Dangerous. And Cas was having a hard time keeping it together. Dean was gonna have to do it for the both of them.

Dean slowed his breathing. He made it long and slow so that the sound didn’t bounce anxiously off the walls, but drifted to Castiel’s ears and reminded him to keep taking deep breaths.

Once they’d both stopped panicking, Dean finally looked Castiel in they eyes and refused to let his own flick to the blush rising across Cas’ cheekbones. Wrong time. Wrong place. Instead, he put as much seriousness in his expression and weight on his words as he could and said, “Cas, I can’t do this alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll hopefully be back to a more regular schedule now that the story's got some heat! Thanks for reading and I hope you liked these new updates! Lemme know if u did!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave your comments, kudos, my lifeblood, etc., in the space below! Thank you so much for reading!


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